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MRS. C. J. EILOART 


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The Seaside Library. Pocket Edition. Issued Tri-weekly. By Subscription $36 per annum, 
yrighted 1883, by George Munro.— -Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates.— Dec. 27 , li 



Some of Our Girls 


A NOVEL. ' 


By MRS. C. J. EILOAET. 



17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 




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SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


CHAPTER I. 

INTKODUCES OUR HEROINES. 

There were four of them : two in the kitchen, one in the draw- 
ing-room, and one in a large, untidy room at the top of the house, 
formerly the nursery, and now called the school-room. Four girls 
between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two ; and, excepting for the 
fact that they were girls, that all spoke the same language more or 
less grammatically, owned the same nationality, and had skins of 
the same color, there seemed not a single tie or connecting link be- 
tween them ; four girls all in the morning of their lives, all, it may 
be supposed, actuated by something like the same hopes and fears 
as to what their lives would bring forth, all living under the same 
roof, and all as far apart as if each separate girl was surrounded by 
a wall of ice that shut her in from her fellows. 

It was not such a very large house either in which the four were 
located. It stood at the corner of one of those quiet, dull, respect- 
able streets that diverge from the nest of squares situated between 
the Euston Road and Holborn. There was a brass-plate on the 
door, with “ Mr. Williams, Surgeon and Accoucheur,’' on it. There 
was a red lamp suspended from the iron that arched over the steps, 
and at the sideuf the house was a small room built out on a portion 
of the back garden, with “ Surgery ” on the door. 

The street had been a good one, but it was going down now. 
People who wanted tenements of the size of those to be found in it 
preferred going a little further from the metropolitan center and 
taking villas, where, in spring at least, the grass would look green 
and the leaves show freshly. More than half of Wurtemburg Street 
was let out in lodgings. People did it so boldly too, much to the 
annoyance of poor Mrs. Williams, who said they had no considera- 
tion for the character of the street; they might at least advertise or 
go to an agent, but, instead of doing:;either, they put bills over the 
fan-lights, and in the front parlor windows, announcing that they 
had “ Apartments,” so that the solidly-respectable tone of the street 
was altogether gone from it. 

Mr. Williams could not move from the street, though it had 


4 


SOME OE OUE GIRLS. 


deteriorated so much since he commenced practice in it. His 
patients were all in the immediate neighborhood, and they would 
not be likely to follow him if he went to the West End. Neither 
was he in a position to take a higher rented house than the one he 
now occupied) He had enough to do to make both ends meet at the 
end of the year, and it taxed his wife’s ingenuity to the utmost to 
keep up appearances, and prevent the world at large — the little 
world of the two or three adjoining squares and streets— finding out 
how straitened were the means of the doctor’s household. 

There were four children to teach and be attended to; it was done 
very cheaply — how cheaply we shall see presently; and there was a 
carriage to be maintained — it would never do for the doctor to visit 
his patients on foot, or he might lose half of them ; and there was 
the house to be kept in order, the steps to be hearthstoned, the 
brass-plate kept brightly polished; and for all such services “cook’' 
and “housemaid” were indispensable. And though cook and 
housemaid were kept as cheaply as possible, and paid as little as 
might be, still it was a diflBcult task sometimes to provide the funds 
even for the plain food and scanty wages which Mrs. Williams gave 
her domestics. 

“ Cook ” and “housemaid ” were two of the girls with whom we 
have to deal, and so we will go to the lower region's first, and visit 
them in their own domain. 

“ Cook ” was Susan Smith, and she was sitting by the kitchen fire 
this dull November evening with her crochet-hook in her hand, 
manufacturing, of all things .in the world, an antimacassar such as 
young ladies make to save the drawing-room furniture. It was not 
likely that Susan would ever have any furniture worth such saving, 
and it was certain that her mother’s cane-seated, wooden-backed 
chairs were little in need of such an article. Still the work was 
pretty and “genteel;” Susan felt herself almost a lady while she 
did it; so, though her stockings were out both at heels and toes, 
aMd she had not a single garment but was in need of repair, Susan 
went on counting her trebles and long stitches, with as calm a sense 
of enjoyment in the progress of her work as if, when completed, it 
was likely to be of the slightest use to any created being. 

Susan was a born Londoner. Nobody could mistake her for any- 
thing else. The sallow complexion, that breeze had never fresh- 
ened nor sun embrowned ; the dull, dark, straight hair, that owed all 
its luster to cheap pomade, and none to the sheen and the gloss that 
spring from a healthy, vigorous organization;, the narrow chest, 
the slight, ^pare frame; the keen, pert, lustrous eyes; the flippant, 
half -defiant manner, by which both master and mistress were taught 
that their handmaiden was as good as they, unless on those points 
where she was decidedly better; the dresS) which in its flounces 
and frills was such a wretched, slatternly mockery of the prevail- 
ing fashion of the day,— all proclaimed the daughter of the crow^ded 
streets and narrow alleys of our great Babel. 

Susan was not the most favorable specimen of a London servant. 
Born Londoners rarely are. She had had no specific training for 
her present duties beyond that involved in serving for a year or two 
in a small lodging-house when she first entered on her teens. Then 
Susan had taken to slopwork as more “genteel,” and lived with 


SOME OE OUE GIELS. 


5 


her 'motlier and a sister whose spine was injured, in one small 
room, where the three subsisted on weak tea without milk, bread- 
and-butter, saveloys, and red herrings, but where Susan could wear 
both her chignons and crinolines as large as she pleased. This 
lasted for two or three years, during which she had the pleasure of 
styling herself “ Miss Smith.'’ She would have starved sooner than 
have given up that Miss; but something worse than starvation 
seemed likely to befall her. She lost her appetite, and her ability 
to work; she had a cough and a headache; and then her mother 
took her to one of the hospitals, where she had advice and medi- 
cine gratuitotisly. The medicine did her little good; the advice 
was that she should give up needle-work and take to service again. 

Susan and her mother had implicit faith in “ the doctor;" and as 
the doctor said he could do nothing for Susan if she still chose to 
work at her needle, to service she submitted to go. It cost her a 
struggle at first. Susan had a soul above service. She had to 
give up her liberty, her evenings out, and her Sundays, and to wear 
a scrap of dirty net which she called a cap, and be called by her 
Christian name. She had to take an inferior situation at first, and 
at the end of three months changed it for one very little better. 
She averaged five situations in a twelvemonth, and before long be- 
came one of those girls who haunt servants’ offices, and make the 
unhappy ladies who frequent them eat very humble-pie before they 
can prevail on one of the independent damsels to enter their service. 

Susan might have drifted to worse evil, as many another girl like 
her has done ; but she was free from any tendency to the coarser 
and darker sins, and her mother, in her way, was a respectable* 
woman. So she did nothing worse than try the patience of one un- 
happy mistress after another, and disarranged every successive 
household she entered, leaving each situation on the slightest prov- 
ocation, and sometimes for no provocation at all. She had now 
been six weeks installed in Mrs. Williams’s kitchen, and had made 
up her mirid to give warning at the end of another fortnight ; and 
as, with the month of her notice, she would have a thre^ months’ 
character, Susan had very little fear of not getting another place as 
soon as it would suit her convenience to look for one, especially with 
the very excellent reason that she would have for leaving. 

That reason stood before her on the other side of the*fireplace. A 
low-browed, heavy-faced girl of sixteen, with an awkward, ungainly 
figure, tall, angular, and bony, dressed with a neatness that was an 
eyesore and affront to Susan, inasmuch as her clothes, being bought 
and paid for by “ missis,’’ the contrast they made to her own was, 
in Susan’s opinion, a reflection on her own taste. Susan felt herself 
affronted by having such a “ partner ’’ in the kitchen. She camC of 
decent people. Hadn’t her own father at one time rented an eight- 
roomed house, and, living in the front kitchen and back attic, let 
off the rest of the mansion, and paid taxes and poor-rates, out of 
which such as Margaret Timbs, her present fellow-servant, were 
supported? For Mrs. Williams, from economical motives, had 
taken Margaret from the workhouse, and was doing her best to turn 
her into a tidy hand-maiden. She had been in the house a month, 
and had smashed, as Susan triumphantly averred, more glass and 
crockery than a quarter’s wages of a accent servant would pay for. 


6 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


She was sullen and selfish as an untamed animal, and stupid as few 
animals are, — a girl whose workhouse life had been admirably cal- 
culated to deaden everything in her but the mere"capacity of living. 

She had grown up from babyhood within the Union walls, a 
creature who had never known caresses or fondling, to whom the 
baby nonsense mothers and nurses so delight to utter to their little 
'Ones was an unknown tongue, to whom kisses were things out of all 
experience, who had no idea of home or of what it was to have a 
father and mother. She had learned her Catechism, and knew it 
by rote — a human parrot. She could read a little, ar^d sew tolera- 
bly, and had some notion of the first rudiments of household work. 

Beyond this, she knew little of what was good, and had a plenti- 
ful knowledge of evil. The vagrant children passing through the 
workhouse, spending their month or two there while their parents 
recruited their strength or waited for better times, had given her 
this knowledge. They were the most amusing companions she had 
ever known. No wonder that she learned readily all they had to 
teach. 

Some day she might turn this knowledge to account. There 
were other ways of getting a living than by going to service. If she 
got tired of Mrs. Williams’s place, she might^try these ways, — see a 
little more of the big world of London than Wurtemburg Street 
would show her. And when she was tired of that, or was in want 
of food, there was always the workhouse to return to — the work- 
house which had been home land parent,’ to her, and would mark 
her, and claim her, and keep her as its own, with the pauper taint 
in her blood, and the pauper brand on her name, till her death. 

Susan looked up from her crochet. “ Why don’t you sit down 
and do something?” she said, impatiently. You’ve got holes as 
big as taters in them new stockings o’ yourn.” Susan’s own 
deficiencies in stocking mending did not make her less inclined to 
play the part of mentor to Margaret. “An’ you know Mrs. Will- 
iams said you was to hem them new tea-cloths she gave you. I hate 
to see people loblolly ing about. You’ll catch it finely, an’ you’ll 
deserve to.” 

“ Don’t care,” said Margaret, slowly shifting from one foot to the 
other as she stood by the fireplace. “ Don’t care a mossel.” 

don’t believe you do,'' said Susan, indignantly. “ I don’t 
believe you care for a single thing in this world ; no, nor a single 
creature either.” 

“Nobody never cared for me, why should I care for them?” asked 
Margaret, calmly. 

“ You’re as unnatural as a brute beast. I never saw anything 
like it. Why, even a cat cares for its kittens, and a [dog has his 
friends an’ his likin’s; but you — why you don’t seem to have a bit 
of human feelin’ in you. Now, is there anything in this world you 
do care for?” asked Susan, laying down her crochet, and looking up 
at her companion with some show of interest. 

Margaret looked back at her with a little faint amazement break- 
ing through the heavy shadows of her face. Susan’s excitement 
seemed to puzzle her a little. What was there for her to get angry 
about? Then she said, slowly and deliberately, — “1 likes my 
Tittles— barrin’ skilley.” 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


7 


‘^An’ nothing else, I do believe,” said Susan, looking on the 
form— which waS that of a girl — before her, and wondering how any 
creature that wore such a shape could have a soul that cared for 
nothing but “vittles.” Susan was faulty enough herself, — vain, 
flippant, forward, pert, not too fond of work, and, as has been said, 
apt to change her places on the slightest provocation, or without 
any provocation whatever. But, at least, she was a human being, 
fond of her mother, and would go without a ribbon or a new bon- 
net to take Mrs. Smith home some tea, or her sister some oranges; 
and would have thought her outing at Easter or Whitsuntide in- 
complete if she could not have both of them with her; and had 
once stayed a whole five months in one service to be able to pay for 
all the party. The thing that stood before her, and had the look of 
a girl, and as much sense of human kindness or relationship as a 
machine, as much idea of purity and self-respect as a brute, was in- 
comprehensible to the girl who had, at least, been reared in a home, 
and to whom the words father and mother were the earliest realities 
she remembered. . 

“I think you’re right there,” she continued. “ You’re the oddest 
girl, if you are a girl, I ever knew. You don’t seem even to care 
for the children, an’ they’re not a bad lot here. Miss Brooke keeps 
them in good order, I will say that. Now, I never could abide a 
place where there was no children. It makes me downright low 
sperity to be with nothing but grown-up people.” 

‘ ‘ Never had nought to do with kids, ” said Margaret Timbs. “Not 
since I was one myself. They keep the big girls away from the 
little uns at the Union. Them that’s in the schools ain’t aught to do 
with them that’s in the nurseries. We’ve all our reg’lar places in 
the Union. Don’t know that I ever handled a babby in my life, 
exceptin’ Mary Green’s, an’ 1 met her, the last Sunday I was out, 
wdth it. She was goin’ back to the workhus. Couldn’t manage no 
how to keep it any longer. Hadn’t been out of the house a twelve- 
month. Said she didn’t know as she should jcare to come oul 
again. The grub isn’t very first-rate in the Union, but it’s sure, an^ 
the work isn’t so hard as it is in service ; an’ when you’ve lived all 
your days there, it seems nateral-like to go back to it. Dessay I 
shall myself some day, but I should like to have my fling first.. 
Mary’s had her fling an’ seen something of life, an’ anyway the 
workhus is the best place for her now she’s got her babby.” 

“ And where’s her husband?” said Susan, severely. “ What’s he 
doin’ to let her go back to a place like that? I should be ashamed 
o’ namin’ on it.” 

“ Husband!” said the girl, with a strange look, half cunning, half 
something worse, in her face. “ We make no count o’ husbands, 
we don’t, when we come from the workhus — thev ain’t for the likes- 
o’ us.” 

“More shame for you!” said Susan, sternly. “A pretty bring- 
ing up you’ve had! All I know is, I like respectable partners 
wherever I go, an’ if you stays here I shall just tell Mrs. Williams 
she may suit herself with another cook— I’m not used to workhus 
company.” 

Margaret took no notice of this outburst. The most “ aggravatin’^ 
thing” about her, Susan sometimes said, was, that she seemed to 


8 


o^OME OF OUR GIRLS. 


Lave “ no feelin’s.” There was no moving her. After a while she 
shifted her position, then seemed to think that she might as w’ell sit 
down as stand, and, taking a chair, was in a few minutes fast 
asleep. Susan looked at her contemptuously. 

“ She’s good company. I never had to do with anything so bad 
in my days. Well, the same place won’t hold us much longer, I’m 
thinkin’. There she’ll sit and snore till she has her supper, an’ 
then she’ll go upstairs to prayers; an’ what the prayers is for I don’t 
believe she knows no more nor a heathen. I never had to do with 
one of her sort before, an’ I won’t much longer now, if 1 can help 
it.” 

So the two in the kitchen spent their evening, waiting for the bell 
that would summon them to the family worship, and the two girls 
upstairs were spending theirs, each after her own fashion, but each 
alone and apart from all the household, and especially apart from 
those other girls, with whom their common youth and common 
womanhood should, one would have thought, have made her, in 
some sort at least, akin. 

Mrs. Williams’ drawing-room was not a luxurious or a very pretty 
room. The doctor had done his best to furnish it suitably for her 
when he married, and she tried hard to keep it in some degree of 
order. There was a round table, which had formerly been in the 
center of the apartment ; but, that arrangement being now voted 
unfashionable, it was consigned to a corner. ^ There were six w^al- 
nut chairs, with green rep covers, and a couch to match, a rosewood 
piano, and one or two smaller articles of furniture. There was a 
card-case and a stand of wax-flowers on the table, and two or three 
show- books. There were no fresh floTvers — they were a luxury 
beyond Mrs. Williams’ means, and the books had not been renewed 
since her marriage. Everything looked straight, and spare, and 
formal, excepting the figure of the one occupant. 

This was Millicent Pembury, who was just turned twenty, and 
heiress to a good house and a landed estate that brought in between 
three and four thousand a-j^ear, and altogether, as she was not only 
a wealthy but a beautiful girl, a person of considerable social im- 
portance— of such importancd, indeed, as to make her seem out of 
her place in the bare, meager drawing-room of Mrs. Williams. 

But Millicent had had a great trouble — a trouble of such a sort as 
does sometimes befall girls in their teens, or out of them, even if 
they are beautiful and heiresses ; and this trouble had affected her 
health — so much so, that it was thought advisable she should be 
placed under the charge of a certain great London physician, famed 
for his skill in lung diseases, whether they arise from the heart being 
affected or otherwise ; arid this had led to her taking up her resi- 
dence with Mrs. Williams. That lady having been a hanger-on and 
poor relative of the Pembury family in her youth, Millicent’s great- 
aunt remembered the fact of her existence, when it was convenient 
to do so. ^ , 

It was out of the question that she should come to London her- 
self. At her time of life the journey would kill her. And Millicent 
Pembury, though so well portioned a young lady, had scarcely any 
relations left but this great-aunt— who only lived to take care of her- 
self, as it seemed — and the poor doctor’s wife in Wurtemburg 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


9 


Street. Mrs. Danvers, the rich relation, thought the poor one 
would do very well in the emergency, and the little practitioner 
could S(;e that the great practitioner’s prescriptions and directions 
were all duly carried out. Mrs. Williams was very ready to be use- 
' ful ; the sum she was to receive for Millicent’s board would be very 
acceptable; and she went herself to Hertfordshire and brought 
MiUicent up, only thankful that Millicent was ready to dispense 
with the services of her maid. 

Millicent had been in Wurtemburg Street now about two months. 
It was her first visit to London, and it had been but a dreary one. 
There had been no society. W hat could there be for Miss Pembury, 
of Pembury Hall, Radley, in Wurtemburg Street, even if she had 
been well enough for it? There had been no sight-seeing, although, 
of late, she had been quite well enough for anything of the kind 
that could have been performed in the daytime, and Mrs, Williams 
had made a point of telling her repeatedly that “the carriage ” was 
always at her service whenever she would care to use it. There 
had been no shopping. Millicent had more dresses than she wanted 
already. There seemed nothing, literally nothing, in all London 
worth the exertion of lifting up her languid eyes to look upon. 

She was better than when she came. There could be no question 
about that. Her cough had gone ; she ate, not as much as a healthy 
girl should do, but yet enough to account for the fact of her still 
being in existence, which had not been the case when she first came 
to Wurtemburg Street. Indeed, Dr. Crane said that she required 
nothing but change. A winter in the south of France or Algeria 
would do more for her now than he could. Millicent negatived the 
idea. Ciiange would be nothing but a trouble — even the journey 
to London had required more effort than it was worth. She should 
go back home at Christmas. If Mrs. Williams would be troubled 
with her, she would prefer staying where she was till then. Mr. 
Williams told his wife in confidence that nothing ailed the girl but 
the having too little to do, and too much to do it with. “ If she 
had to work for her living, like poor Miss Brooke, it would be a 
great deal better for her.” 

“ But the Pemburys never did have to work for their living,” said 
Mrs. Williams. She had been a Pembury herself, and she had to 
work hard enough now — quite as hard, in her way, as either of her 
servants or her governess ; but then it was not for money, which 
made all the difference. She did not like the manner in which her 
husband spoke of her cousin. If she had been the daughter of the 
butcher or the grocer, tainted with would-be fine-ladyism, he could 
not have spoken more brusquely. But hrusquerie was Mr. Williams’s 
great fault, in his wife’s opinion. He would never rise above the 
butchers and the grocers, never obtain a really aristocratic connec- 
tion, so long as he spoke so freely and so plainly. 

^ \ Millicent Pembury was altogether out of keeping with her surround- 
ings. She had a rich dark-brown silk, flounced and frilled and trim- 
med as dresses are now-a-days. Her small, white hands were covered 
with rings, some of them of great value; but the dress had been 
bought when Millicent Pembury attached more importance to her 
personal adornings than she was ever likely to do again ; and On one 
of the hands so listlessly clasped there was one old-world ring of 


10 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 

gold, twisted in the form of a serpent, with a small ruby in the head, 
for which not a pawnbroker in the kingdom would have given flve- 
and-twenty shillings, that Millicent valued more than all the precious 
stones and goldsmith’s work which had come down to her as heir- 
looms. 

She had beautiful hair, a dark, silky brown, almost black, but 
with threads of gold gleaming through it — hair of the kind that is 
ready to break out into curls on the slightest provocation; but it 
was not arranged in any of the complicated fashions so prevalent 
no'w — just twisted up in a great coil, as if its luxuriance was a 
trouble to its possessor. Not ungracefully disposed, however. 
Millicent could do nothing ungraceful or awkward. She had some 
wonderful charm, some innate, unconscious tact about her, which 
made whatever she did or wore seem the best and fittest thing to be 
done or worn. Her attitude now, listless, despondent as it was, 
would have delighted a painter. And it was in keeping with her 
beauty, which, at its best, was of a fragile, delicate type; with the 
eyes, that were always subdued in their brightness ; with the cheeks, 
which never warmed into color. She was always pale and shadowy, 
and looked a creature who would rather endure any amount of suf- 
fering than seek a way out of it for herself. 

There was a lamp on the table near her : a book Tvhich she had 
been making believe to read ; some tatting, at which sometimes she 
made a pretense of working ; and there was a letter which had come 
by that evening’s post, and which she had not yet opened. She took 
it up now, and glanced at its contents, then laid it down. 

“ The old, old story. Get well and strong for the sake of others, 
and the duty I owe myself. If I could please myself, I would just 
lay my head on my pillow to-night, never to wake up again. Why 
does one have to live at all when life is so little worth the living? 
Why didn’t I die six months ago, when — when I first knew what I 
had lost? Get over it! Aunt Danvers’s pet phrase. Do girls ever 
get over such things, and care, or make believe to care, a second 
time for any one else, and marry, and go through it all, as she 
would have me? Oh! to feel young, and to know that one must 
live on, though all the zest and the pleasure of life are taken 
from it ! 

“ I wonder,” she continued, after a pause, whether I shall tone 
down and marry, according to my friends’ advice, as Aunt Danvers 
says she did ! Aunt Danvers has had her disappointments too,” she 
added, scornfully; “ but she has made the best of her life in spite 
of them, and not found it, in her own opinion, such a bad thing, 
after all. It’s worth while living fifty years more to be another 
Aunt Danvers ! Do people’s hearts die, or do some never have hearts 
at all? Perhaps that was how it was with Aunt Danvers; but for 
me — for me to live to be like her! As if one could forget all that 
has been, and all that one thought might be, and settle down to an 
old age of punctilio and physic ! I suppose that doctor thinks he 
has earned my everlasting gratitude by giving me another lease of 
life. If it hadn’t been that it was too much trouble to refuse, I 
would never have come to London at all. Why should I care to 
live? What will there be for me when I go back to Radley? It 
will be as monotonous as it is here, and more fatiguing. One day 


SOME OF OUE GIELS> 


11 


just like the other, and nothing, nothing in all the long round to 
hope for or look forward to.” ^ 

Upstairs, in the school-room, sat Polly Brooke — Pauline, if one 
were to give her her proper designation, but nobody did. She was 
too bright, too pleasant-looking to be called anything but Polly, if 
she had a name that could by any possibility be turned into that 
abbreviation. Polly, or Pauline, was rather beneath the middle 
height, as plump as a girl should be without giving rise to uncom- 
fortable misgivings as to what she might develop into at forty. She 
had bright eyes, gray or green, of an indeterminate color, a fresh, 
clear complexion, a nondescript nose, and a mouth that would have 
been too large if it were not that when she laughed, a very common 
thing for Polly to do, she showed the whitest and finest of teeth. 

The first thing that in Polly Brooke struck an observer was that 
she looked one of the most sensible and best tempered of girls; and 
there was an appearance of capability about her, of general handi- 
ness and efficiency. She seemed the first person to turn to on any 
emergency whatever, from a cut finger to a house on fire. The 
next thing that an observer might see, if with eyes that looked be- 
low the surface, would be that, under all Polly’s common sense and 
general efficiency, there was a certain depth of feeling, and a fair 
share of something very akin to romance: She was shrewd, quick- 
witted, clever, but with all the potentialities of passion beneath 
these common-place attributes. 

Polly Brooke looked, just now, as if her heart was safely in her 
own keeping, and not very likely to go out of it. She would never 
fall in love, because, like a great many young ladies of the past 
generation, and some few of the present, she had nothing else to do 
or to think of; but if Polly did love, though she might nr' be so 
ready to die for her love as Millicent Pembury had been lo. iiers,. 
she would live for it to quite sufficient purpose. 

Polly’s dress fitted her admirably. It was a black alpaca, and 
she had made it herself, having a natur^^l genius for dress-making: 
and millinery. On her bright chestnut-brown hair she wore a scar- 
let bow, and another fastened her little linen collar at the throat. 
Polly had to be economical. Mrs. Williams gave her just sixteen 
pounds a year, for which Polly undertook the entire charge of her 
pupils, wardrobes included, and taught them English, French, and 
no music. It was her ignorance of the latter accomplishment that 
had enabled Mrs. Williams to obtain her on such easy terms. Polly 
did not grumble at the lowness of her salary. Her French not beings 
acquired abroad, and her music being nil, she could not expect a 
first-class situation. Mrs. Williams paid her a fair market value for 
her services. They were low in the market, but that was not her 
fault, nor Mrs. Williams’s either, who, poor thing, would have* 
found it hard to give her more than she was doing. 

■ Polly was doing three things at once, or nearly so. She was eat- 
ing an apple with unmistakable relish ; she was darning a pair of 
child’s socks ; and as she drew her long needlefuls of cotton through 
her work with the care that good darning requires, she took in a 
line or two from Vanity Fair, which lay open before her. The 
greatest dearth in Mrs. Williams’s household was the dearth of 
books. The doctor read his Lancet and a daily penny paper^ 


12 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


Siisan, downstairs, had her penny weekly novels. Mrs. Williams 
said she had no time for reading at all, but there were two or three 
“ good ” books over which she went to sleep, as a matter of duty, 
every Sunday. 

Miss Pembury had brought some volumes of poetry and fiction 
with her, and, once or twice, had bought a book since her stay; but 
Polly Brooke would never have dreamed of asking Miss Pembury 
to lend her anything. Conventionally, they were both young ladies, 
and, at least, they were girls possessed of some amount of educa- 
tion, intelligence and refinement; but there was a barrier between 
them almost as great as that which separated either from the occu- 
pants of the kitchen, or that one which set Susan, “who came of 
decent people who had paid poor-rates," above that pariah, her 
pauper fellow-servant. 

Therefore, out of her sixteen pounds a-year, Polly found the 
money to spare for a book now and then from the adjacent library. 
The books were old, but the terms were low, and she could not 
afford Mudie’s last new novels — perhaps would not have cared for 
some of them if she might have had them for the asking; and, 
after all, one may do worse than be driven, by stress of circum- 
stances— meaning paucity of pence — to Thackeray and Dickens. 
Polly seemed to think so. 

“Done!" she said, as she drew the little sock from her fingers. 
“Now for Amelia and her George. What a creature for a girl to 
waste a second thought upon ! " 

. ; She drew the book to her, and finished her chapter and apple to- 
gether, enjoying both with equal relish. Then, as she was turning 
a page, she remembered a little service which she had promised to 
render Mrs. Williams. 

“There’s that poor thing’s bonnet to do up. I shall just have 
time before prayers ; but one can’t read and execute millinery, so 
good-by, Mrs. Amelia, for the present. No wonder there are such, 
men as George Osborne in the world while there are such fools as 
yourself to spoil them." 

She took the bonnet m question from a cupboard, and began try- 
ing what she could do, with the help of a fresh flower and some 
ironed-out lace, to renovate its appearance. 

“ I’m glad she’s going to have a new one for best, poor thing! 
and another silk dress. There’s some good in Miss Pembury’s 
staying here; she’d have neither, else. What a sad messLof her 
life that little woman has made of it, to be sure ! What a scraping 
and saving, contriving, and pinching it is ! I wonder what she 
mariied for? She’s w^orse off than I am. She has more to do, and 
more to worry her, and not so much money to spend on herself as 
even I have. Besides, I’m not supposed to dress; apd in dress, as 
in everything else, there is the everlasting necessity of ‘ keeping up 
appearances,’ for a poor doctor’s wife. ^ And what did she get dnto 
it all for?" asked Polly of some invisible auditor, as she twisted 
the bonnet round and eyed it critically. "‘It couldn't have been 
for love. Fancy any one loving, really loving, Mr. Williams! It 
must just have been for the sake of a home, — and not much of a 
home after all, — or the feeling of being married, which some women 
seem to think is all they come into the world for. So do some men 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


13 


too. Mr. Tomlyn is one of them. I suppose Mrs. Williams means 
to be very good-natured when she asks me into the drawing-room 
when he comes, and tells me he’s a marrying man. He told me so 
once himself, and looked— ah! I’d have given my best pair of 
gloves to have boxed his ears for that look. I shouldn’t wonder 
but Mr. Tomlyn sometimes thinks he’ll do me the honor of marry- 
ing Well, there are easier ways of getting one’s living than 

marrying; for if one takes a housekeeper’s situation in that way, 
one can’t give warning and leave if one finds the master is too hnrd 
to please. There’s the bell for prayers. Well, Mrs. Williarns, I’ve 
done the bonnet, and, considering this is its fourth winter, I don’t 
think it is so much amiss.” * ‘ 


CHAPTER II. 

so NEAR AND SO APART. 

When Polly Brooke came down into the hall, she found Miss 
Pembury at the door, and Susan and Margaret readj^ to follow 
the young lady into the dining-room. Susan rather approved of fam- 
ily prayers. They were a sign of respectability, and she always kept 
a clean, freshly-starched apron ready to put on for the occasion. Mar- 
garet, or Madge, as she was known in the household, stood by 
without a sign of interest in her stolid face. She was finishing the 
last mouttrful of her supper, — munching deliberately, slowly^ 
'munching, much as an animal ruminates. 

. “ You might have finished by this,” said Susan, who was taking 

in every fiounce and bow on Miss Pembury’s handsome dress. She 
had not seen this one before, and Miss Pembuiy’s toilets were 
daily delights to Susan. She wondered how much the dressmaker 
to whom she intrusted her own “ costumes ” would charge her for 
one likfe this. She was examining every point and fold of her dress 
the whole time of prayers. She behaved well, outwardly, and said 
her ‘ Amens ’ in a manner that did her credit; and as soon as she 
was in the kitchen, gave Madge a lecture for not saying ‘ Amen ’ at 
all.., “ One would think you was a heathen instead o’ bein’ brought 
up in^ .Chrfetun country, to see you,” said Susan. “ I never see 
such-l^qritter in my life!” 

h What’s the good of it all?” asked Madge. “One gets tired o’ 
the stuff. There’s such a precious lot of it in th’ Union. I didn’t 
think I Wgs bound to stand prayers when I went out to service. I 
sha’n’t, nayther,” she said, sullenly; “it’s a kind o’ thing I didn’t 
look for when I came out.” 

“You’re a nice one to talk of what you’ll stand!” said Susan, 
contemptuously. “ You’re not like a girl that’s always kept herself 
respectable, an’ got a good cliaracter to fall back upon, and cum of 
people that had a house o’ their own, an’ paid rates to keep such as 
you in idleness. I can have my pick whenever I goes to an office, 
an’ I takes care to let the ladies see I know my own vally. That’s 
only proper pride. But what’ll you do if you throw yourself 
out o’ this? There’ll be nO pickin’ an’ choosin’ for you.” 

“ If I don’t get a place to my mind. I’ll have my fling somehow,” 


14 


jSOME op our girls. 


said Madge; an’ there’s always the Union to go back to. They’re^ 
bound to take me in,” she added cunningly. “ I’ll never kill my- 
self with work, I know, as long as I’ve that to fall back on.” 

Mrs! Williams read the prayers, for it was never certain that Mr. 
Williams might not be called away before they were concluded. 
She was a thin, anxious-looking woman, of forty, though her eldest 
child was only nine years old. She had married late; but Mr. 
Williams came in her way when nobody else seemed likely to do so. 
He had been assistant to the principal surgeon near Radley, and. 
had sometimes, w^hen his principal was ill, called at the Hall, and 
she had met him in the village when employed in carrying out Mrs. 
Danvers’s benefactions. The match was beneath her, Mrs. Danvers 
said. It was an outrage on all the proprieties for a Pembury to 
marry a country doctor, or, indeed, a doctor at all; and the Pem- 
!bury in question certainly did not care very much for the doctor. 
But she was tired of being a hanger-on, of having no definite occu- 
pation and no certain home, and therefore She took the doctor, with 
every intention of making him as good a wife as if she had been as 
much in love with him as, ten or twelve years before this, she would 
have thought it indispensable she should be with the man she 
married. 

They came to London. Mrs. Danvers made her kinswoman a 
present of a hundred pounds toward furniture, some cracked old 
china, and a piano, which was equally cracked. Mr. Williams 
bought a fourth-rate practice, and they settled in Wurtemburg 
Street. Mr. Williams himself took matters much more easily than 
his wife. He had not to solve the daily problem of how to make 
every ninepence go as far as a shilling. He worked hard, and con- 
trived to make enough to pay for the brougham, his life insurance, 
house-rent and taxes, and to give Mrs. Williams a certain sum for 
housekeeping. But how that very limited sum was to cover all the 
thousand-and-one expenses of the household, and invest the daily 
life with something of grace and decency, was a problem that never 
troubled him, but which it was the daily task and nightly care of 
his wife to solve — not always effectually. 

He was a large-made, florid man, a little older than his wife, with 
a loud voice, and an abrupt manner, — not at all the doctor to m/ike 
his way into a "‘good ” connection, or suit nervous ladies, or. fanci- 
ful patients. But he was fairly clever and kind-hearted, only people 
would not credit a man who talked so loud and made so light of 
their lesser ailments with being half so clever or so well-meaning as 
he really was; therefore he never got into the higher circles of 
Bloomsbury, and was never likely to be able to leave it for a more 
aristocratic quarter. 

He did not fret about this very much himself. He was a man who 
nevei’ fretted about anything. He had an excellent appetite, a good- 
digestion, and nerves of iron, and he took everything very easily, 
except being knocked up in the night or called away from his din- 
ner. But he always did get up when the night-bell rang, and 
rarely stayed to finish his dinner, even if it was his favorite roast 
pork, with stufifing. As to Mrs. Williams’s difficulties, he did not 
understand them any more than men in general do understand the 
difficulties even of the women they know the best and see th# most 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


15 


<of. He gave her as much as he could for housekeeping, and num- 
bers of women had to do with less; and the stress and the strmn, 
the wear and tear of nerves and mind, involved in making it suffice 
at all were a matter wholly beyond his ken. 

The children were always sent to bed before prayers, so that there 
were only the four girls and the master and mistress of the house 
assembled in the dining-room. It was a meager, sparely furnished 
room — more meager and unlovely even than the drawing-rooni ; for 
the carpet was almost worn into holes, and the curtains had faded 
into unrecognizable colorlessness. And there was none of the home 
feeling, the warm air of hearty vitality, that sometimes makes a 
homelv, shabby room so homelike and so genial. Mrs. Williams 
had not the gift which some woinen, however stinted in their means, 
possess of surrounding herself with a genial atmosphere. All the 
stint and the care, the striving to bridge over a bottomless chasm 
which is called ‘^making both ends meet,’^ was so constantly with 
her, that an uneasy sense of privation seemed to pervade every 
room, but especially this, the ordinary living room of the house- 

W’hile Susan and Madge downstairs had the little dialogne I have 
given. Miss Pembury bade her hostess good-night with her usual list- 
lessness; then slowly wound her way up the stairs to heiv own 
room. Her movements were so languid, her eyes and whole bearing 
so dejected, that Polly Brooke, following her, felt as if only illness 
could account for such a manner. Miss Pembury was always slow 
and listless ; but to-night she seemed so much more so than usual, 
that Polly broke through her usual rule of keeping the same dis- 
tance toward Miss Pembury that the latter maintained toward her, 

and said,— ^ « t 

“ You don’t seem at all well. Can I do anything for you? Let 
me come into your room and help you to undress.” 

“ Thanks; I am much as usual; only a little tired. I have been 
out to-day. No, there is no occasion to trouble you. Good-night, 
Miss Brooke.” 

The manner was polite and well-bred. It would have been 
impossible for Millicent Pembury’s manner to have been anything 
else. But there was a slight shade of hauteur in it which made 
Polly feel as if, in putting herself forward as she had done to assist 
Miss Pembury, she was considered to have taken a liberty. Gentle 
and courteous as Millicent w^as, Polly had always felt that the 
young lady was fully aware of the difference between their stations. 
It was not so much that Polly was a governess, no, nor even that she 
took such entire charge of her pupils as to save Mrs. "Williams the 
expense of a nurse; for ladies, if not sufficiently educated for 
higher situations, had sometimes to take similar posts to Miss 
Brooke’s, or be useful companions, as Mrs. Williams, when Sarah 
Pembury, had been to Mrs. Danvers, when she had performed more 
unpleasant duties than dressing children and keeping their clothes 
in order. But Polly’s father had kept a shop. It did not matter to 
Millicent that it was a chemist’s. A little money more or less would 
have made no difference in her caste; but this was trade, ugly, vul- 
gar, ignoble- trade— trade that pushed its way into high places, and 
jostled and elbowed the better born, and held that wealth was the 


16 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 

be-all and end-all of this life — and it was as the pariah brand in the 
eyes of Mrs. Danver’s niece. She had imbibed two or three preju- 
dices from her aunt, and this was certainly one of them. 

“ I wonder what made me speak to her?” said Polly, when in the 
room which she shared with her two younger pupils. Why 
couldn't I have let her ask for help if she wanted it! I don’t want 
to be taught my place. I’m quite aware that I am only the gov- 
erness, and the “ nursery ” governess, too. Miss Pembury. A plain 
little body, with no accomplishments to speak of, and nothing but 
my head and my hands to help me on in the world. And you are 
rich, and so beautiful that it is a treat to only look upon you. One 
hasn’t so many pretty things in this world. And with all your 
money and all your beauty you don’t know how to get any real 
good out of your life. And I pity you with all my heart. Miss Pem- 
bury ; but for myself, while I have the aforesaid head and hands, 
and the health to use them, I don’t pity myself a bit.” 

And if Polly Brooke could have seen Millicent Pembury then and 
there, she would have pitied her yet more. She had flung herself 
on the flrst chair she came to, when she had placed her candle on 
the table, and there she sat, as if the labor of undressing would be 
more than the night’s repose was worth. 

“You won’t want Jenkins,” said Mrs. Danvers, who had dis- 
pensed with a regular attendant herself, when her niece had become 
of an age to require the services of a more dexterous tire- woman and 
hair- dresser than the old nurse who had been attending her from 
infancy. “Jenkins can fill up her time here with your new under 
Jineni it never does with this class of servants to take them to small 
houses like the Williams’s. She would give herself airs, and make 
poor Sarah very uncomfortable, and, perhaps, give warning before 
she had been in the house a week. And it’s not a place where you 
need dress. I don’t suppose they keep much company. I don’t see 
how they can, poor things! and, at any rate, Sarah would never ex- 
pect you to join their society, and you’ll find her very useful. I’ve 
no doubt she’ll be quite willing to come in of a night and brush your 
hair and put away your dress — indeed, I always considered her quite 
as handy as I ever found Jenkins.” 

Millicent wanted no Jenkins with her. Her maid knew her story, 
that dreadful story — none the less shameful, so it seemed to her, be- 
cause it was the story of another’s sin. She did not want Jenkins 
to be noting her looks and words, and speculating as to whether her 
mistress “ was getting over her disappointment”; but she gave Mrs. 
Williams very little trouble, feeling only too thankful to be left in 
peace and alone. She wanted no eyes looking on her in her misery : 
what had to be borne had best be borne alone. 

She unfastened her hair almost mechanically, and it fell down in 
great dark waves over her shoulders. She passed its length through 
her fingers, thinking how one other had once praised its luxuriance. 
Then she flung it from her impatiently. 

“ Another day gone, another day, and how many more to come! 
Years of such days— years and years, if I live to be as old as Aunt 
Danvers, and, perhaps, be nothing hut an Aunt Danvers, after all ! 
Why couldn’t they have left me alone? If I had never known, 
Horace might have been all that they said he was — all that I know 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


17 


he was; and yet I should have been happy in my blindness. I never 
wanted my eyes opened; what did they do it for? Why did they 
tell me the truth, when I would have died a thousand times sooner 
than have known it?'’ 

Then Millicent Pembury flung herself on her knees, not to pray, 
but to weep. Polly Brooke’s bright eyes had shed tears enough in 
their time, but never such tears as these. For it was no grief over 
the dead taken away just when they seemed most worthy of all love 
and honor — no wailing over a parting that could never be eternal if 
there were a God to believe in and a future life to hope for. Ah, 
well for those who have known no bitterer grief than that we feel 
for the dead ! But Millicent Pembury’s idol was covered with no 
grave dust — shattered, disowned, dishonored, there it lay, a thing 
so utterly abased and broken, that even in the weakest hours of her 
grief she dared not hope ever to build it up again. 

She moaned herself to sleep in her lonely misery. Polly Brooke 
lay awake upstairs, equally alone, though not so miserable, thinking 
how glad she should be now and then of some companionship more 
intelligent than that of the children, and more congenial than that 
of poor, anxious, harassed Mrs. Williams. In the back attic, on a 
flock bed, not at all of the widest for two, were Susan and Margaret 
— as far apart as those two others, in spite of their apparent prox- 
imity. 

“ Don’t go a-kickin’ like that,” said Susan; “keep your legs to 
yourself, if you please. Well, my father never thought, when he 
paid his rates regular, that ever I should come to be bedfellow with 
a girl from the parish. An’, by the way you’re goiu on, it won’t be 
long before you’re back to it.” 

“I’ll have my fling first,” said Madge, in the thick, heavy mono- 
tone of her voice; “an’ as like as not I shall go back there; but 
I’ll have my fling. What was the good o’ cornin’ out o’ the Union 
else?” 


CHAPTER III. 

MR. WILLIAMS’S SLUMBERS ARE BROKEN. 

Mr. Williams sat by the remains of the fire, when the rest of the 
household were in their respective apartments, sipping the glass of 
gin-and-water which was his nightly solace when the labors of the 
day were over, a^ the family devotions had been performed. His 
wife leaned back in her chair, with the anxious look that always 
pervaded her face, intensified, if possible, “ Millicent does not 
seem to me to be getting any better,” she said. “I think she is 
breaking her heart for that young Gordon.” 

“ Her lungs are all right, whatever her heart may be,’^ said Mr. 
Williams; “ and there’s more vitality in hef than you’ve any idea 
of. She has a splendid constitution. The only pity is she hasn’t 
got to get her living — there’d be no talk of her dying in that case.” 

“The Pemburys were never strong,” said Mrs. Williams, who 
thought it a mark of high breeding to be delicate. 

“ Aren't they? Look at old Danvers. If she’d do with half as 
much food and a third less sleep, she’d live to ninety. As it is, she 


18 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


has done her threescore and ten, and, bar accidents, Milly will make 
just such another. She wouldn’t have been ill now if she couldn‘t 
have afforded it. A girl with such a chest as hers has no right to 
have anything wrong with her lungs. Her cough was half nervous- 
ness, half fancy. If she’d been a housemaid, she’d never have had 
it at all ; she’d have slighted her work for a week or so, got a scold- 
ing from her mistress,, or, may be, warning, and looked out for an- 
other place and another young man. Dying, indeed! All the 
dying she would have done would have been her ribbons ; and if 
the last fellow liked them pink, she’d have had them blue for the 
new one.” 

Mrs. Williams gave no answer, but a little sigh. She and her 
husband were never at one when the Pembury peculiarities were in 
question. She waited meekly till he had finished his gin-and-water, 
and then, lighting her candle, was about to go upstairs, when the 
night-bell rang loudly. 

“Confound it!” said Mr. Williams. “ I was called up at three 
this morning, and I suppose to-night I’m to be kept up to the same 
hour. The girls are in bed too, so I must go myself, I suppose.” 

Mr. Williams went, and saw an anxious husband at the door, who 
informed him that Mrs. Johnson was in immediate need of his serv- 
ices. He was not surprised, but told Mrs. Williams not to sit up for 
him. “It’s just as I said; I sJia'n't get to bed till three in the 
morning. Why couldn’t the woman have let me have my night’s 
rest in peace?” 

Mrs. Williams went to bed alone, and Mr. Williams joined her 
about the hour he had named. 

“Don’t keep breakfast waiting, I sha’n’t be down till ten,” he 
said, drowsily. “I must take it out at one end if I can’t at the 
other. Johnson’s got another boy; that makes seven, counting 
both sorts. Wish him joy of his quiver full. Hope he won’t keep 
me waiting for my bill so long this Christmas as he did the last.” 

Then Mr. Williams slept and snored, and Mrs. Williams, resolv- 
ing that his slumbers should not be disturbed the next morning, re- 
lapsed into her own. But her good intentions on her lord’s behalf 
were frustrated, for, before seven o’clock had sounded from the 
church in the neighboring square, a knocking so violent on the bed- 
room door as to show that whoever made it was too much in earnest 
to think of their knuckles, was heard, and then Susan’s_voice, in 
shrill and urgent tones, — 

“Please, sir, you’re wanted; there’s not a minute to lose. It’s 
a baby, sir, an’ it’s dead, an’ the father and mother’s nigh dis- 
tracted, an’ they’ve brought it to you to see what can be done. 
Oh, please, sir, make haste, or the mother ’ill screech the house 
down.” 

“Hit’s dead, what’s the use of troubling,” said Mr. Williams, 
turning drowsily on his other side. 

“ oil, please, sir, be quick; she’s a takin’ on dreadful. She over- 
laid It in the night, an’ found it dead when she got up.” 

^ “ Took too much gin before she went to bed,” said Mr. Williams, 
his own gin and water not troubling his conscience in the least. 

“ Oh, Miss Pembury, wouldn’t you like to see it? Miss Brooke, 
it’s the loveliest little babby, an’ a girl, an’ the poor mother’s feel- 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 19 

ill's is dreadful. She’s down in the surgery, screechin’ the house 
down. It’s awful to hear her.” 

Millicent had come to the door of her bedroom, wrapped up in 
her dressing gown, and Susan turned eagerly to her in the hope of 
finding an interested auditor. Her own sympathies were roused to 
the utmost. The sight of the baby, and the mother’s noisy grief, 
had stirred her heart, and it was warmer even than her temper. 
Besides, Susan was ready for anything in the way of excitement 
that came in her way. Polly Brooke was descending the stairs; 
she was neatly dressed, as usual, and ready for the day’s work, 
which she was just about to commence by rousing her pupils and 
attending to their toilets, when Susan’s outcrie^met her ear. 

“ A dead baby, Susan! No, surely, or they would never have 
brought it here. There must be some hope, or they wouldn’t have 
troubled Mr. Williams.” 

“ Come down and see for yourself. Miss,” said Susan. “It’s as 
dead as ever it will be; but, of course, it will be a satisfaction to 
have shown it to the doctor. Besides, it may save an inquest, 
which is always tryin’ to the feelin’s.” 

Mr. Williams now made his appearance at the door of his room, 
having made a very hasty toilet. He looked sleepy still, and rather 
cross at being disturbed. “ If it dead, what’s the use of bringing 
it here?” he said testily. Then seeing Polly, he added — “ Come 
along, Miss Brooke; if there’s life left I may be able to make you 
useful.” 

Polly followed him downstairs. Susan came next, her heart all in 
a flutter, she declared. Millicent Pembury returned to her room. 
“ I may as well dress,” she said, languidly. “ It’s not worth while 
going to bed again. I shall only down a quarter of an hour 
before breakfast instead of a quarter after.” 

The baby and its father and mother were in the surgery, a small 
room at the end of the passage, which it was the duty of Madge to 
keep in order. She was pretending to dust it now, going from one 
shelf to*another with her duster, then stopping to look at the group 
in the room. Death had neither terrors nor mystery for her. The 
dead-house in the Union was a common-place reality enough. 
When people were dead, there was an end of them, and once they 
had had “ their fling,” and seen a little of this world, there was not 
much to be got by staying longer in it. But the man who had 
brought the child looked more concerned than Madge would have 
thought anybody need be about a baby; and as to the woman, who 
now held it in her arms, and rocked herself violently to and fro, 
her outcries were beyond any that Madge had ever heard. 

“ They makes a deal o’ fuss about the kid. I should have 
thought they’d have been glad to have been rid o’ the bother,” was 
her half contemptuous thought. 

Mr. Williams came brusquely in. “ Don’t make such a noise, 
my good woman ; it’s deafening, and enough to kill the child, if it 
isn’t dead already. Here, Miss Brooke, will you take it from her, 
and bring it to the light?” 

Polly obeyed. She had helped the doctor before now when there 
had been trying cases in his surgery. He had said of her that she 
had neither nerves nor nonsense, and had the making of a first-class 


^0 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


nurse in her. She took the little creature now, and went to the 
window with it. The cold, gray light of the early winter morning 
was struggling through, and fell on its little features. It was a 
small, delicately-made child of three months — so small, so pretty, 
that it seemed as if it could not be the offspring of the rough -look- 
ing man in bricklayer’s fustian, and the blowsy, disheveled woman, 
with her red face, made redder by her noisy grief, who had brought 
it there. Susan came forward, and looked on it pitifully. “ Pretty 
lamb! it’s taken out of its troubles early.” 

Madge stopped in the midst of dusting a shelf, and looked at 
Susan as if her pity was incomprehensible to her, which it was. 

Mr. Williams put his ear down to the child’s heart and mouth, 
tried to pour some restorative down its throat, opened the blue eyes 
and peered into them ; then turned to the woman. 

How did this happen?” he said, with some severity in his tone. 

‘‘ Took it to bed with me, last night,” said the woman, speaking 
in a strong Irish accent, ‘"an’ the darlin’ was as well as ever it was 
in its life, an’ this mornin’ I found it just as you see by the side o’ 
me. Ochhone! an’ it’s on’y three months since I lost Mick, the 
finest babby that ever one set eyes on ; an’ now this, that I took in 
its place, an’ to oblidge the poor mother, who said she didn’t know 
where on airth to find any one that ’ud do their duty by it, is gone. 
An’ what’ll the childer do for their playfellow, an’ what’ll I say to 
her when next I set eyes on her?” 

She won’t be cornin’ nigh you this month, an’ ye’re paid all that 
beforehand,” said her husband, by way of consolation. 

An’ it isn’t the dirty money I was thinkin’ of, Mick,” answered 
his wife, indignantly, “or would I ever have taken the darlin’ for 
as low as four shillin’s a-week, lettin’ it tie up my hands so that I’ve 
hardly had time to do a hand’s turn for the other childer? Oh, 
docther, dear, don’t say it’s dead. How can I ever go back to my 
place widout it?” 

“It’s as dead as a door-nail,” said Mr. Williams, bluntly. Per- 
haps he would have measured his words more if he had been ad- 
dressing the real mother. “ And you’ve only yourself to thank for 
it. What did you take the child to bed with you for, if you’re such 
a heavy sleeper that you couldn’t take proper care of it? There isn’t 
a week but some woman burkes a baby to death in this fashion ; and 
they’ll never get over it till one or two are hung as a caution to the 
rest.” 

The woman burst into a fresh paroxysm of grief, swaying herself 
violently to and fro. 

“ I can’t do anything,” said Mr. Williams, addressing her hus- 
band. “ You’d better take the child away.” 

“ Divil a bit,” said the man, with a brusquerie equal to the doc- 
tor’s own. “ I’m not for handlin’ a dead body.’^ 

“Then, your wife must take it,” said Mr. Williams. “ I can’t 
have the child here.” 

“ Oh, how will I ever be able to carry you back, my darlin’, and 
know that it’s dead you are all the while?” shrieked the woman, 
beating herself wildly with her arms, but making no motion to take 
the child which Polly Brooke gently tendered her. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 21 

It will be no more to take away than it was to bring,” said the 
doctor. “ I can’t see to the burial, you know.” 

“ The buryin’! Oh! an’ it’s you has the heart of a stone to be 
namin’ anythin’ of the kind,” shrieked the woman. “ Oh, mavour- 
neen! an’ is he talkin’ of hidin’ your purty face in tliecold ground? 
Is it that that I brought you to him for? Mick, if you’re a man, 
take me out of this! Shure, he’s not a grain o’ feelin’ or he’d never 
talk o’ buryin’ like that. No, I can’t take it, miss; I can’t!” and 
she almost pushed Polly from her. ‘‘The weight o’ death would 
carry me to the ground wid it.” 

“Come home, Molly, an’ let’s see what I can do for you,” said 
her husband, sympathetically. “ Shure your feelins is killin’ you.” 

“Yes, get me back to m}^ Oder darlins; the sight o’ them will 
comfort me. Oh, worra, mavourneen ! that I’ll never see your blue 
eyes again.” 

And in a whirlwind of grief, as they had come in one, the dis- 
consolate foster-parents of the baby dashed out of the house, leav- 
ing it on Mr. Williams’s hands, and literally in the arms of Polly 
Brooke. 

“ Confound the hussy! she’s done it on purpose,” said the doctor. 
“A planned thing, 1 should say, to saddle me with the funeral of 
the child, only that it must have been dead too short a time for them 
to concoct any regular scheme. Now, I shall have to go to the 
workhouse about the funeral, and have all those thick-headed ves- 
trymen grinning at me Put the child on the table. Miss Brooke, 
cover it up, and let’s get some breakfast. I meant to have had an 
extra hour or two in b^ed this morning, but instead of that I must 
go and see how I’m to dispose of this. We’ll leave it here, Susan, 
and if any patients come before it’s removed, show them into the 
back dining-room.” 

Mr. Williams went upstairs to finish his toilet, preparatory to his 
breakfast, and Polly and Susan placed the little one on the table 
that was in the center of the room. They removed the litter of 
papers and books that was on it, so as to make its temporary resting- 
place a more seemly one. Then Polly went to the linen closet to 
fetch a clean white cloth to cover it with, and Susan stooped and 
kissed it gently. 

“Pretty dear! it’s hardly cold yet. Now, what are you garpin* 
for?” she added, turning fiercely on Madge, who stood with the 
duster in her hand looking stolidly at the baby. 

“It’s like a great wax doll,” she said; “but it’s prettier than 
Mary Green’s.” 

“ Don’t you name Mary Green’s child and that little angel to- 
gether!” said Susan, still more fiercely. “I don’t know, though,” 
she added, more quietly; “ it’s only a nurse-child, and there was no 
talk of a father. It’s no better than Mary Green’s, I* dare say, and 
best off where it is, poor lamb.” 

Polly came back with the cloth, and laid it gently over the still 
little face. “ You’d best come away,” said Susan to Madge, as she 
followed Miss Brooke out of the room. 

“I’ve got my dusting to finish,” said the girl, with her usual 
stolidity. “I don’t w^ant to be rowed at again to-day about it.” 

“ An’ you’ll stop here, an’ go on with your work just as if noth- 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


22 

ing had happened, and with that dead babby in the room?’’ said 
Susan, opening her eyes with almost horror. 

“A dead babby’s quieter nor a livin’ one, an’ ain’t likely to hin- 
der me,” said Madge. “ She jawed at me yesterday about those 
shelves, an’ I don’t want her to do it again to-day. There’s that top 
one I ain’t touched yet.” 

‘‘Well, shut the door after you when you come away,” said 
Susan. “Just hear her, miss,” she added, turning to Polly; “ she 
makes no more count o’ the poor little angel than if it was a dead 
puppy. She don’t seem like a human being.” 

“ Workhouses don’t rear them,” said Polly, sententiously; “but 
don’t you think, Susan, it would be possible to turn her into one?’^ 


CHAPTER IV. 

HOW THEY WERE BROUGHT TOGETHER. 

Madge went on with her dusting. She had a little dull, heavy 
pride in the performance of such household work as was assigned 
her. The finer portions of a housemaid’s duties were beyond her; 
but she could scrub floors, scour tins, and blacklead stoves in a 
style that more accomplished handmaidens would not have equaled. 

And she did not like to be found fault with about her work, and 
Mrs. Williams having reprimanded her yesterday for the state of the 
book-shelves at one end of the study, Madge was resolved that there 
should be no cause for such fault-finding to-day. A great many 
things besides books were on these shelves : cases of surgical in- 
struments, gallipots, vials, rolls of paper, bill files; so that it took 
Madge some time to do her work thoroughly, especially as she was 
never disposed to hurry over anything she did. But she had nearly 
finished, there was only a corner of the lowest shelf to complete, 
when a slight noise made her turn her head toward the table on 
which the baby had been left. 

It was the faintest, slightest sound — not a cry, it was too weak, 
and yet more than a sigh ; and it came from beneath the white cloth 
which had been thrown over the little quiet thing upon the table. 
Madge stood and stared at it, and then — there could be no mistake 
now — the noise was repeated. She went toward the table, and, half 
afraid, with a blind, ignorant fear of she knew not what, took off 
the cloth and looked upon the baby that had been left for dead. 

^ Had life come back? Come back from whence and how? The 
little mouth was quivering, the tiny hands were moving, and yet the 
baby had been left for dead. 

“ As dead as ever it could be,” said Madge. 

Of death, the still, white, cold, grim thing called by that name, 
she had no dread. It had been too ^ familiarized to her. All the 
sanctity and the state that surrounds the fearful visitor even in the 
humblest cottage home, she knew nothing of. The hushed step, the 
speaking wdth bated breath, the kindly condolences, the visits of 
sympathizing neighbors, were never to be seen in the factory that 
had turned her out, as it turned out so many others, to drift for a 
time in the world, and then find their way back to its walls. She 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


23 


had been in the infirmary for months, and had seen one dead child 
or woman taken away after another, and it had seemed a matter-of- 
course thing that they should die and be done with when their turn 
came. Die as did the cats and the dogs, only that they had a little 
better burial. Children she had known taken away from the ranks 
of the school and never brought back again, and they, too, had died 
— turned, she supposed, into the stiff, cold, motionless things that had 
sometimes lain for hours in the next bed to the one she had occupied 
in the infirmary. That was what dying meant. To be white, cold, 
stiff, still, deaf, dumb, blind, and never trouble anybody more, and 
never be troubled by anyone. When people died they were done 
for^ and there was an end of them. Once dead, they never spoke or 

stirred. , i i 

As to coming back after death Madge had read her Bible in class, 
verse and verse in turn; it had been read aloud too in chapel, but 
she was none the better for its teschings. They were above her al- 
together. As a child, she had a dim dread of hell-fire as a sort of 
torment which might a?vait her in the future; but all such fancies 
had been laughed out of her by the birds of passage who had taken 
up their winter quarters in the workhouse. 

“They were just a pack o’ parson’s lies. Parsons an’ beaks an 
the Board knew what they were about when they tried to gammon 
with that stuff.” This kind of lesson stuck by Madge better than 
did the chaplain’s. But of late she had pretty well forgotten both, 
and settled down into a dull materialism. Spiritual and moral 
faculties were alike enveloped in a fog. Even superstition was un- 
known to her. There was not imagination enough in her for it. 

But something like fear — or should we call it awe? — woke in her 
dull, sluggish nature now. This child had died, and yet it was not 
dead. Life did not end with death then? And from whence did 
life come? The little baby struggling faintly for the existence it had 
ao nearly lost, was a terrible mystery to the poor, crushed, imper- 
fect soul that looked upon it. She could not move or stir, but 
stood staring, with wide-open eyes and mouth, a queer, grotesque, 
image of dread and terror, when Susan came to the door to tell her 
breakfast was ready. 

“ What are you staring there for? Why you’ve uncovered the., 
poor darling! Couldn’t you let it rest in peace!” she said, sharply, 
coming up to the side of Madge. “ Why, as I’m a sinner, it stirs, 
it moves, it Iwes! Oh! oh! oh!” And Susan sank into the nearest 
chair, and went into hysterics. 

The sound reached the ears of Mr. Williams, who was just com- 
ing down the stairs ready for his breakfast. He was wide awake 
now, which he had hardly been when the baby had been first 
brought to his house, and was fresh and florid from his bath. Mrs. 
Williams followed him, her housekeeping troubles on her mind, 
and her keys in her hand. The day, with its little cares and worries 
had begun for her. Polly Brooke came next with her four pupils, 
the youngest — a saucy, rosy boy of four years old, Polly’s especial 
delight and torment — in her arms. Polly had a habit of caressing 
and cuddling children, — “ getting all the fun she could out of them,” 
as she expressed it. She was quite ready for her day’s work too, 
.and would find a great deal more enjoyment in it than Mrs. Williams 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


24 

would. Then came Millicent Pembury, slowly, listlessly, as if the 
burden of the day before her would be too much to endure ; and to all 
these the hysterical screams of Susan ascended as they came down 
the stairs. 

“ What’s up now?” said the doctor, testily. “ Trod on a mouse, 
or seen a cockchafer? Take the children in, and give them their 
breakfast, Sarah— I’ll be with you presently.” 

They never had family prayers at Mr. Williarns’s of a morning, 
they were liable to too many interruptions; besides, Mr. Williams 
rarely made his appearance till the meal was over, and, the kettle 
being on the hob, Mrs. Williams was able to make the coffee with- 
out requiring the attendance of either of her handmaidens, which, 
in the present circumstances, as Polly’s pupils all wanted their 
breakfast, was fortunate. 

“Oh, oh, oh! it lives, it lives, it lives!” sounded through tlm 
house. 

“Just come with me. Miss Brooke,” said the doctor. “I da 
believe there’s something up with that confounded baby!” 

“If it^s alive after all, what shall we do with it?” moaned Mrs. 
Williams, feebly. 

“ Send it to the workhouse; they won’t catch me keeping it,’^’ 
said her husband, as he made his way to the surgery. 

Millicent Pembury followed Polly thither, regardless of Mrs. 
Williams’s entreaties that she would stay to breakfast. Millicent 
had not always been so wrapped up in her own troubles as she was 
now, and, for a moment, she seemed inclined to forget them, and 
show a little interest in the household disturbances. When they 
came to the surgery, Susan was still crying almost as violently as 
the baby's foster-mother had done, while Madge stood by the side 
of the child, looking on it with, for once, a human look lighting up 
her features. It was dread, and awe, and interest ; but the heavy 
inert stupidity, which it would be an insult to our four-footed 
relations to call animal, had passed away. Polly saw that look 
before she did the child. Mr. Williams turned at once to the baby. 
The little lips wore a natural color now instead of the livid blueness 
they had worn. The deadly paleness had passed from the skin, 
and the little chest was heaving with the faint efforts it was making 
to cry. One glance was enough for Mr. Williams. 

“ Get a hot bath,” he said, contemptuously. “ The thing’s alive. 
Who’s got enough sense to draw some hot water?” 

Susan’s hysterics vanished in a second. 

“Little lamb! To think of its being alive after all. I’ll get a 
bath in a minute, sir.” 

Polly Brooke took the little creature on her lap, and began to 
undress it. Madge stood looking on the while. 

“ Run into the children’s room,” said Polly, “and bring me a 
little blanket, and the softest towel you can find. ” 

For once, Madge did run, and came back with the articles re- 
quired. The necessity of doing something had dispelled her fears, 
and she looked intelligent and almost happy as she gave them to 
Polly. Susan appeared with the bath, and baby, two minutes after 
immersion, uttered so shrill and strong a cry, that it was clear that, 
for this time at least, neither its life nor its lungs were in danger. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


25 


“That’ll do,” said the doctor. “Keep it wrapped np in the 
■blanket for a minute or two, then dress it, and give it a little milk- 
nnd-water. When breakfast is over, I must go to the workhouse 
^ibout it. Miss Pembury, don’t you want your breakfast? I’m sure 
I want mine.” 

“ I’lrstay and see how the little one gets on,” said Millicent. 

Madge looked up at her. ‘ ‘ Where did the life come from to get 
back info it?” she asked. 

“God knows whether the life will prove a blessing,” said Milli- 
cent, sadly ; and Madge looked as if about to relapse into her nor- 
mal state of torpidity. 

“ Come and rub its feet, Madge,” said Polly. “They’re not as 
warm as I should like them to be.” 

Down Madge went before one wonderful little foot, and Susan 
before another. “Let me, oh! do let me. Miss Brooke,” said 
the latter. “ Precious lamb! To think of its having had such an 
escape as this! Lovely little tootlums! An’ does it like to be 
rubbed, does it? Bess itapeshus! Lord love its little heart, it’s 
smiling ! ” 

“ ItT leave that off if it gets in th’ Union,” said Madge, with a 
matter-of-fact grimness. She was rubbing the little foot the while, 
but the baby gibberish that Susan so delighted in was an unknown 
tongue to her. It had never met her own infant ears. Fond words 
and fonder kisses, all that mothers, however poor and liardly 
worked, can give their children, she had never had. She looked 
on Susan now with a little surprise. “ It didn’t understand you, 
did it?” 

“ Oh it knows, it does. There’s a deal of sense in babies,” said 
Susan, fumbling at the little foot. 

“ An’ it’s got to go to the Union!” said Madge, with something 
like pity in her tone. She had asked where the"^ life had come from 
to the baby. As Polly looked at her, she wondered how this new 
life had come to her. 

Millicent came and bent over the child. “ It’s a pretty little 
thing,” she said. “ It, does seem a pity it should ever come to that.” 

“ You would say so if you knew something of workhouse chil- 
dren,” said Polly; London workhouse children especially.” 

“.I wish I could keep it,” said Susan. “ I’m sure I woflld, if I 
could afford it; but what can one do out of twelve pounds a-year?” 

“ The pretty, dainty little darling!” cried Polly; “ and to think 
of its ever coming to be like the children I have seen!” 

“ Just let me hold it in my arms a minute, miss,” said Madge. 
“ I never held a little one afore. We was always kept away from 
’em in th’ Union.” 

Polly placed the child in her arms, and Madge took it with a little 
awkwardness, but much of uncouth tenderness. Her face changed : 
a strange light was breaking through its sullen gloom ; the lips 
quivered and the eyes moistened, and presently the tears fell fast 
upon the little baby face. 

“ She’s too good for the workhus. She didn’t have the life come 
back to her to be made just the same as the likes of us.” 

“ That girl’s got some feelin’, after all,” cried Susan. “ Who’d 
have thought it?’' 


26 


SOME ♦OF OUR GIRLS. 


“ The likes of us!’’ Polly knew what she meant. The unchild- 
Jike children who take their dreary walks in processions through 
the streets of London, with faces stamped with a gravity that 
would be unnatural in age, and is horrible in youth. Faces from 
which all the light and the joy and the playfulness of childhood is 
gone. Children to whom the wiles and the merriment of infancy 
are unknown, with souls stunted because no love has ever been 
given them to feed on, — minds dwarfed because the affection and 
the tenderness on which such minds should be nurtured have never 
been theirs to know — or old in all the cunning and the devilry 
that can hinder all chance of pure and wholesome growth. Baby 
would have been better with the angels than to have been one of 
these. 

“ I wish,’’ said Millicent, with a little hesitation, “that we could 
save baby from the workhouse.” For the moment, the four girls,, 
so dissimilar in fortunes and characters, were “ we,” with one com- 
mon interest between them. “ I would willingly undertake the 
expense, but I know of no one to whom I could give the little 
creature.” 

“ I do!” cried Susan, exultingly. “ It’s the very thing mother’s 
been wishing for. She’s gone out Homerton way. Mile End was 
so close, she said, there was no bearing it, an’ she’s got a tidy room 
in .a nice airy street. It isn’t far from the Victoria Park either. 
Jane could take baby there sometimes, when her back would let 
her — she’s weak in the spine, miss; but, anyhow, mother and she 
would see that it didn’t want for fresh air; an’ whatever you 
thought fit to give, miss, would satisfy mother, an’ 1 know she’d do 
her duty by it.” 

Miily looked at Polly. Turning to her for counsel as she would 
never have thought last night she could have turned to the 
nursery governess whose people had been in trade, — Polly answered 
the look. 

“ I should think, from what I have seen of Susan, her mother 
would do well by the child ; at least it seems the best arrangement 
that can be made for it at present, Miss Pembury, if you are really 
g(#ng to provide for its future.” 

“ Then if 3mu would take it to your mother, Susan, when Mrs. 
Williams can spare you. But you must let me know where she lives, 
and I’ll come and see it sometimes.” 

“East Street, Homerton, not far from Hackney church-yard. 
You get to it by the North London or the ’bus. But I beg your 
pardon, miss; of course, you never go by ’buses.” 

“i do though, Susan; and if Miss Perobury likes. I’ll go and see 
your mother and baby soon. * Tou may not be well enough to go 
so far just yet. Miss Pembury.” 

“ Thank you, thank you. I should be glad if you would settle 
the first arrangements for me. And it will want a little outfit, poor 
mite,” said Miily, with a pitying smile, that showed Polly how 
much loveliness her face was capable of expressing. “It has not 
much of a wardrobe.” 

“ Only give mother a few yards of calico and fiannel, miss, and 
she’ll soon see to that,” said Susan, eagerly. “ She’s hand}" at her 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 27 

.» 

needle, an’ works at times for a baby-linen house. But she was 
wishing for a nurse-child now she’s got into such a nice airy part.” 

“Perhaps Mrs. Williams could spare Susan and me together,” 
said Polly. “ The children are going to their grandma’s this after- 
noon; then I could settle everything for you.” 

“If you would be so good,” said Milly. And so the matter was 
arranged, and Susan carried baby off triumphantly to the kitchen, 
and Milly and Polly went at last to their breakfast. 


CHAPTER V. 

MRS. SMITH AT HOME. 

That Afternoon saw Polly and Susan seated in a second-class 
■carriage on the North London line, baby on Susan’s lap, and Susan 
as resplendent as a chignon, three parts horsehair, and a bonnet all 
scarlet flowers and black ribbon, and a “ costume” flounced to her 
waist, could make her. Madge had opened the door for them when 
they went out, and given the baby a kiss at parting; and Susan 
told her that she should go and see it at times, forgetting, in baby’s 
presence, that she was asking a girl from the parish to go and visit 
her mother, who had paid rates and taxes in her lime. Millicent 
had looked after them from the drawing-room window, with eyes 
that showed, for once, some faint interest in what they gazed on : 
and she had thought how like a lady the little governess looked, 
although her people had been in trade. 

Madge had promised to get tea ready for them by the time they 
came back. The doctor was going out to dinner in the evening, 
so the rest of the household had dined early, and’ Mrs. Williams had 
taken the children with her to see her husband’s mother, who lived 
•at Netting Hill. These were always visits of some state and dig- 
nity. They had the brougham, which was not often at Mrs. Will- 
iams’s command, and the children wore their best clothes, and ex- 
pected to stay to tea, and have seed cake and thin bread-and-butter. 
Mrs. Williams was not very fond of her husband’s mother, — daugh- 
ters-in-law seldom are; but the old lady had six hundred a- year at 
her own disposal, and was capricious and arbitrary, and had flve 
children besides Mr. Williams, ^some living much nearer Netting 
Hill than he did, and therefore it was of consequence that she 
should be reminded of his existence at times. 

Polly and Susan got out at the Hackney Station, crossed the 
churchyard, where Polly looked up admiringly at the old tower 
that remains of the former church, and then, pushing quickly on, 
found themselves soon in East Street, Homerton. There were large 
houses and small ones in this street, — some that had seen better 
days, when their occupants were thriving tradesmen, going to and 
from their places of business, or those who had given up trade alto- 
gether, and come a little way from the stir of the City, where they 
had made their money, to settle down where green flelds were near, 
without being too far away from old companionship. -9, 

It had been a well-to-do place in its time, The large houses had* 
still a solid air of comfort and respectability 'about them, but their 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


28 

occupants were of a very different class to what tliey had once been. 
Some were let out in apartments; others were entirely empty, and 
the windows were broken and draped with cobwebs;^ while yet 
others were employed as business premises, and dyeing or boot- 
making was carried on in them. 

The smaller houses had suffered less by the decadence of the 
neighborhood. They were, perhaps, as well let as they had ever 
been, and the row to which Susan pointed with some pride as the 
place “where mother lives,” was not devoid of a certain homely, 
unpretending comfort. They were habitations of about six room& 
each, with a very tiny forecourt, from which a flight of steps led 
into a broad area, whence the lower rooms opened. The areas 
were so broad, and the steps so easy of descent, that Polly had no 
feeling that baby’s home would be, in a manner, under the level of 
the street as she followed Susan. 

“ Mother has the front room, miss; and she likes its being on the 
ground floor,”— there was no thought with Susan of its being under 
ground — ' ‘ because she can go in and out as she likes without mixin' 
with the neighbors. It’s pleasanter to a person who’s had a house 
of her own.” 

A door, of which the upper part was of glass, as well as a win- 
dow, looked on the area, so that Mrs. Smith’s apartment was amply 
lighted, although to secure her privacy, there were muslin blinds 
before the glass. The apartment was fairly tidy. Polly knevr 
enough of the class she was visiting not to expect too much. There 
was a chest of drawers, with a tea-tray and some books on it, — a 
decent bed, with a patchwork quilt, in the corner, — four Windsor 
chairs, two of them with arms and cushioned seats, — a round table 
in the center, and an oblong one, which served as a sideboard, 
against the wall. The look-out was not unpleasant, for, the floor of 
the room being only four feet below the ground, its occupants were 
enabled to see something of the passers-by; and in summer, no 
doubt, the flower-bed, which now had dried sticks in it, would con- 
tain living plants; and there were three geraniums and a bird in 
the window. People who liked pets and flowers would not be un- 
kind to children, thought Polly. 

Mrs. Smith w^as a tidy -looking woman, and Susan’s sister was a 
paler, sharper-featured edition of Susan herself, minus the chignon 
and the flounces. It is only amongst our servants that we must 
look for a successful caricature of our fashions. They were both 
at work, and, unless to lean back in her chair now and then, as if 
exhausted, Susan’s sister continued at work the whole time the 
visitors w^ere there. The mother’s fingers slackened now and then 
when she was making the arrangements about “baby.” 

They were not very difiicult to make. For five shillings a-week, 
Mrs. Smith was ready to undertake the child, “ and do her duty by 
it,” she said, emphatically. “Fresh milk from the cow — I shall 
go an’ see it milked myself, it’s only round the corner — and as much 
fresh air in the Park as Jane is able to give' it. I wanted a nurse- 
child on her account mostly, to get her out in the Park, and let her 
feel she’s not doin’ nothin’ ayther. Those that have got their livin’ 
to get can’t afford to go out just for going out’s sake.” 

PoJly was very fairly satisfied with Mrs. Smith, and listened with 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


29 


exemplary patience to her account of the fellow-lodgers, with whom 
she had very little to do, and the lime when she had a house of 
her own. Polly was a clever talker in her way, but she was quite 
as good a listener, and won Mrs. Smith’s heart by the sympathy of 
her silence, more than she could have done by any amount of words. 
Mrs. Smith had one grievance to complain of — her area was not her 
own. Having the front room — she was as careful not to call it 
kitchen as Susan was not to speak of its being under ground — she 
considered the area her property ; but the children of the first floor 
and of the people of the house, would come and sit upon her steps 
and make incursions into the area, even peep in at the windows, 
and carry on their games, till one couldn’t hear one’s self speak for 
them. 

“It’s downright imperence,” said Susan, who always took mat-' 
ters with a high hand, having acquired the habit through teaching- 
successive “ missuses ” their place. “ I shouldn’t stand it, mother; 
I’d leave first.” 

Susan was always leaving through something she couldn’t stand; 
but perhaps her mother was of opinion that “ situations” ai’e more 
easily found than comfortable lodgings, for she made answer, — 

“ The place suits me in many things, and the people of the house 
are respectable, which is a great deal to those that have had a house 
of their own ; but to have them children teariu’ up and down the 
steps, an’ playin’ with their bits of chaney, makin’ believe to keep 
shops on them, is more nor should be. The Browns ain’t so bad — ■ 
it’s Mrs. Brown that owns the house, miss — but them Tozers are 
that aggravatin’, that I sometimes feel as if I must lay hands' on 
them— a thing I never did to any one^s children but my own; but I 
think that Jack Tozer will make me, some day.” 

“ There he is, mother; I can hear him a-blowin’ of his trumpet,” 
said Jane. “He does that reg’lar, miss,” she added, turning to 
Polly, “every time he comes home from the infant school.” 

“ Out of mere imperence,” said Mrs. Smith. “ It’s in the family. 
I haven’t no opinion of his mother.” 

Jack Tozer’s trumpet was heard in one loud prolonged note of 
triumph — no doubt poured forth in exultation at its owner’s release 
from school. There was a hubbub of voices, shrill and clear; other 
children than Master Tozer had evidently left school. 

“ There’ll be no peace for them the next hour,” said Mrs. Smith ;- 
“ not till their tea-time; an’ as like as not they won’t go in to that, 
but sit on the step with their bread-an’-treacle, a-chatterin’ like sa 
many monkeys. An’ if one speaks to them. One only gets sarce ; 
an.’ as to that Jack, though he’s only four years old, for imperence I 
think he’s the worst of the lot.” - 

Polly went to the window and looked out. Jack Tozer was on 
the steps, with his trunjpet in his mouth, as sturdy an infant as ever 
lifted up a shrill voice in the chorus of a hymn.- He was large and 
rosy, and solidly built, and was puffing away .at his,: trumpet with 
indomitable determination. Behind Jack were at least half-a-dozen 
youngsters, of ages varying from two to ten; and Polly, who was 
peeping behind the muslin blind, noticed that their eyes were fur- 
tively turned -toward the window, as if they thought a foe might 
be looking at them. Then there was a little whispering, and gig- 


30 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


gling, and scuffling, and cries of “ You daren’t ! ” and ‘'You daren’t ! ” 
as if provocative of some deed of enterprise; and then a ball was 
flung into the area, and the assembled youngsters stood at the top, 
waiting to see which of their number would venture to fetch the 
prey from the lion’s mouth. 

“Now that’s another bit o’ their imperence,” said Mrs. Smith, 
looking out of the other window, but keeping behind the blind, as 
Polly was doing, so that she might reconnoiter the enemy unob- 
served, “ They know whatever I find in my area I keep, an’ tliey’ve 
flung that ball down o’ purpose to see if I’ll come out for it ; then, 
if I take it in, they’ll be knockin’ a dozen times a day, with, 
‘Please, Mrs. Smith, you’ve got Mary Brown’s ball.’ Oh, they’re a 
nice lot, they are ! Now they’re a darin’ of one another to come 
out and fetch iU they never will be content, they won’t, till one or 
other of ’em’s had a good spankin’. There, it’s just as I said; 
they’ve set that little Jack Tozer on to fetch it, an’ he’s a cornin’ 
down as bold as brass. Ugh, you little villain, don’t let me catch 
you in my area!” 

Jack’s foot was on the second step, when Mrs. Smith opened her 
door and called out to him as above. Jack stared at her, but did 
not flinch. His comrades drew back, and there was a giggle and 
a cry of “ Jack daren’t get it now. Jack, run, run! or she’ll have 
you!” 

Jack stood his ground manfully. Polly’s heart warmed to him. 
He looked bolder and bonnier than ever. She felt a longing to kiss 
him or give him a penny ; but either would have been an affront to 
Mrs. Smith. There lay the ball in the area, and Mrs. Smith’s angry 
eyes rested on it. “She’ll have it. Jack! She’ll have it! You 
daren’t get it; now then!” And Jack, feeling that the eyes of his 
friends were on him, and inspired, may be, by the valorous sounds 
he had lately been drawing from his tin trumpet, rushed boldly 
forward — too boldly, alas! for prudence — and, falling headlong, hit 
his head with such force against the lowest step, that he lay stunned 
and inanimate, to all appearance never likely to blow tin trumpets 
any more. 

There was a general howl of horror from the children, not wholly 
caused by pity of Jack, but springing from a dim dread that if 
Jack was killed, as seemed likely, those last in his company would 
be called to account for his untimely end. Shrieks from Susan and 
her mother. Jane always took matters more quietly — her illness had 
subdued her; l)esides, she had not witnessed Jack’s fall, being by 
the fire with the baby in her lap. Polly Brooke opened the glass- 
door, and soon had Jack on hers, and saw, with a little fear, a great 
bruise and a cut, both unpleasantly near the temple. 

Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Tozer were on the spot as if by magic, so 
were two or three other mothers from the neighboring houses. The 
area and the steps were full, so was the forecourt. There was a buzz 
of questions, cries, reproaches, lamentations — three, at least, of the 
children thinking it their duty to set up each a steady roar for their 
playfellow. But Jack lay quietly in Polly’s arms, even when she 
had. dashed water on his forehead, and poured a teaspoonful of 
brandy down his 'throat; so at last, looking up to his mother, she 


SOME OE OUK GIKLS. 31 

said, — “ He’s stunned by the fall, and it will take him a little time 
to get over it. It might be as well to send for the doctor.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

JACK TOZEU’S DOCTOR. 

“ The doctor ” was in his little surgery, looking up and looking 
down the quiet street of small genteel villas, each with its tiny strip 
of garden-ground in front. There was very little stir at any time in 
this street, and the only carriages would be that of some medical 
man — not “the doctor” of whom I am speaking— on his way to a 
patient, or perhaps an equipage bearing aristocrats from other 
neighborhoods to look upon the People’s Park, that w^as the pride 
of this one. From his upper windows “ the doctor” could catch a 
glimpse of the trees of Victoria Park. His house was not ten 
minutes’ distance from it, and the street in which he lived, and 
several other adjacent ones, had sprung up within the last few 
years. They were neat little houses, occupied mostly by clerks in 
the City, and in summer, with the sunlight resting on the white 
pavement, the little gardens, and the geraniums in the windows, 
and with glimpses here and there of the Park in the background, 
they were pleasant-looking enough — much pleasanter to look at 
than Wurtemburg Street, with its grim, tall house- fronts, and the 
long line of its dismal areas, on whose railed-in steps even Jack 
Tozer would not have ventured to blow his trumpet. 

But patients were more plentiful at Wurtemburg Street than they 
were at Lome Road. The doctor, now waiti)ig in the corner house 
there, had put his brass- plate on the door six months back, tempted 
thenjto by the lowness of the rent and the “rapidly-improving 
neighborhood,” as the house-agent designated it. It was his first 
settled habitation. He had been surgeon on board an East Indiaman 
till now, but at twenty-eight he had thought it time to attempt to 
establish a permanent practice and a settled home ; and so had 
taken the corner house in Lome Road, and sat down to wait for 
patients. 

He was pleasant-looking— a better type of his profession, every 
way, than Mr. Williams. A bronzed face, bright eyes, a genial 
expression, and a well-knit figure, just above the middle height. 
His few patients liked him; but they were so few, and, unhappily, 
of a class that did not pay so well as did even Mr. Williams’s. The 
clerks who lived in the pretty new houses and villas round him had 
not very large salaries, and there were very few dwellers in. the 
neighborhood possessed of any but moderate means. The neighbor- 
hood might be improving in numbers, but it was not in money; and 
Gordon Tynsdell had begun, by this time, to ask himself if he had 
not made a mistake in settling there. 

It was five o’clock in the afternoon ; he had had nothing to do for 
the last four hours but eat his dinner and read the newspaper. He 
dined early, because his servant told him it was more convenient to 
her that he should do so. She was an elderly person, who had ofll- 
ciated as char-woman while, he was moving into his new residence. 


32 


SOME OF OUE GIKLS. 


When he was settled in it, she intimated that he had better keep her. 

She could do for him better than a young woman, and nobody’s 
tongues would be set going. She would do without a boy for a 
time, though, of course, any doctor who had an eye to business, 
would keep one. And he would find her very careful and manag- 
ing, and a person who knew how to do her work as well as need be, 
if not interfered with.” 

Having engaged her master on these terms, Mrs. Sims had matters 
pretty well her own way. She gave him cold dinners and w^axy 
potatoes five days out of the seven, and did her work after such 
fashion pleased her best; so that the matrons of Lome Road said 
the sooner Mr. Tynsdell had a wife to look after things, the better it 
would be; and Mr. Tynsdell himself regretted the life he had 
known on board ship a little, and the table he had sat down to there 
a great deal. 

There came a ring, short, sharp, and peremptory, and, pushing by 
Mrs. Sims, in came Susan Smith, flushed, tearful, disheveled, with 
a terrible story of a child who had fallen down a flight of steps and 
smashed his head, and of the shock to her own nerves caused by the 
event, and orie of a similar character that had taken place in the 
morning; winding up with the assurance — her hand on her side, 
and her Tvords coming out in gasps — that two such “ turns ” in one 
day were too much for any one. 

Gordon Tynsdell put up a few remedies, asking Susan the while 
where his patient was; then he went out, outstepping her with his 
long stride, so that he was in the house before she had reached the 
corner of the street. The room was full of women — never had 
there been such an invasion of Mrs. Smith’s domestic privacy — 
while the childreh stood, a sympathizing crowd, outside. Every 
now and then one of them would run down the steps, and peer, 
standing on tip-toe, in at the window, and, coming back, give a ^ 
report which thrilled the listeners with horror; and then they all 
would gather in the forecourt, and try and judge of the state of 
matters for themselves. 

Jack had opened his eyes, and murmured something faintly, 
which had been received with acdarnations, before Mr. Tynsdell 
made his appearance. Polly herself was becoming reassured about 
Jack’s safety, and informed Mr. Tynsdell that she did not think 
there was so much amiss after all. The doctor looked at his 
patient, and w^as of the same opinion; and then he looked at Polly, 
and thought what a pretty girl she was, and wondered how she 
had come there. 

“If one-half of you would go out,” he said, addressing the 
crowd of sympathizers, “and leave me with the child, he might 
have a chance. Which is his mother?” 

Jack’s rriother presented herself, and, Mrs. Smith intimating that 
the room was hers, and that therefore she had a right to remain in 
it, Mrs. Brown and the remainder of Jack’s friends left, and then 
Mr. Tynsdell asked Polly if she could hold the child while he 
examined him more fully. 

“ You have more nerve than most young ladies,” he said, when he 
had not only examined Jack, but doctored his hurts, Polly holding 
him firmly in her arms, while his mother prevented his kicking. 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. ' 33 

The little fellow will do now if he is kept quiet, and I’ll look in 
to morrow morning and see him.” 

Jack was not likely to prove a profitable patient; but Mr. Tyns- 
dell felt as if hCr should not mind that very much if he were to gee 
something more of the bright-eyed young lady, who was now draw- 
ing on her gloves in a business-like way, and evidently making prep-, 
arations for her departure. 

‘‘ Good-by, Jack,” she said, and kissed him. “ If you’re a good 
boy, and mind the doctor, I’ll bring you a ball the next time I 
come this way. But mind, no more standing on the steps, or you 
may break your head so that there will be no mending it.” 

She gave one kiss to the baby, which Susan followed with half- 
a-dbzen; then, with a good-day and a bow to Gordon Tynsdell, she- 
went out of the glass-door, up the area steps, and into the fore- 
•court. All the children had gone now ; their respective mothers 
had carried them off, and they were how consoling themselves 
with bread and-treacle for the end that had been put to their 
amusements. 

“ I like that doctor,” said Polly to herself, as she and Susan made 
their way toward the North London Station. ‘‘ He’s a sensible 
man, and understands his business. If anything ails baby, I shall 
tell Miss Pembury I don’t think she can do better than emplay 
hjm.” 


CHAPTER yil. 

A MARRYING MAN. 

When Polly Brooke came to the door of the house in Wurtem- 
burg Street, she saw, standing on the step, and looking around him 
with the appearance of honoring everything he looked at by simply 
letting his eyes rest upon it, a gentleman, whose presence was 
always distasteful to her, and at this particular moment more dis- 
tasteful than ever. She was full of the little excitement of her 
journey, and she wanted to tell Miss Pembury what had taken 
place, and to let her know the full particulars of the arrangements 
that had been made with Mrs. Smith. She meant also to tell her 
of Jack’s mishap, and bespeak her interest in the doctor who had 
been called in. 

“ He’ll never be paid for Jack; but Miss Pembury can pay him 
for baby— and I dare say he hasn’t too many patients. A new doc- 
tor in a new neighborhood, or in the outskirts of one that is dying 
out, isn’t likely to be making his fortune,” thought Polly, who had\ 
a sympathy for all strugglers. ‘‘ I’ll tell her of him. She doesn’t 
seem so unapproachable as she was — baby has had a wonderful 
effect; and there’s Mr. Tomlyn; what does the man mean by staring 
up and down the street as if it all belonged to him? Well, he can’t 
come in, that’s one comfort, as Mrs. Williams isn’t at home.” 

But Mr. Tomlyn would come in, even though he heard Mrs. 
Williams was out, and not likely to be in for some hours. He fol- 
lowed Polly into the dining-room; an& as Madge lit the gas, Poyy 
saw an expression in his face as if he had come to Wurtemburg 
Street for some special purpose, and did not mean to leave till he 
2 


34 ^ 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 

had fulfilled it. Some instinct told her this. Polly was not at all a 
“ missish young lady — not the least given to suppose that every 
man she met was in love with her, and dying to make a proposal; 
but still a girl has some intuitive instinct in such matters, let her 
think as little of marriage as she may; and if Polly had always dis- 
liked Mr. Tomlyn, she felt that she hated him now. 

And yet he was a man whom a great many young ladies, espe- 
cially in the position of Polly, could have found it in their hearts to 
have done anything but hate. He was not bad looking — for a man; 
his features were of no particular order, but there was nothing to 
find fault with in them. His mouth, which was the worst part of 
his face, inasmuch as it was too clearly an index of his character, 
was concealed by a mustache and beard of a pale sandy color. His 
hair was of the same hue, his eyes a light steely blue. He was about 
the middle height, with a very slight tendency to enibonpoiriX. He , 
was only thirty-five now, but this tendency might increase unpleas- 
antly in later years. He was always well and very carefully dressed, 
but with a habit of breaking out into diamond studs and rings on 
the slightest provocation; and he was a “City man,” getting his 
living in one of those many mysterious ways that are so puzzling to 
feminine brains, but getting it very comfortably indeed. 

Mr. Henry Tomlyn for the last five years had been thinking of 
marriage. Indeed, he said of himself, he was “a marrying man” 
— said it with a little pride, and a serene sense of self satisfaction 
at his own ability to marry, and his benevolence toward women in 
general by raising one of their number to be his wife. He had an 
idea that the end and aim of every woman’s life was marriage; that 
the advantages of the connection were so entirely on their side that 
the least they could give in return was the most complete subservi- 
ence to a husband’s wishes, and the readiest obedience. He meant, 
when he married, to take a good house in the near suburbs of Lon- 
don, and to keep his wife always handsomely dressed. By-and-by, 
when he was a richer man — and he believed, and was right in the 
belief, that he was one of those men with whom riches are sure to 
increase — he would take “ a place” a little way in the country — he 
would keep a sufficient establishment, and allow his wife a liberal 
sum for housekeeping; but such sum should be spent as bethought 
best; and he would have entire contrpl over every person and thing 
in his household. 

He had a mercantile way of looking at everything. He should 
give a great deal when he married, and therefore he would have a 
right to expect a great deal back. It was the same with his ac- 
quaintances — the intimacies he called “ friendships.” If he gave a 
good dinner, he expected as good a one in return ; if anybody gave 
him worse wine than he gave them, he considered himself defrauded; 
and the spirit of barter — of a just and proper quid pro -quo — was as 
powerful in his motives for marrying as in his hospitalities. 

He did not care for money — he could afford to do without it; and 
he did not care for family. A wife better born or better connected 
than himself might be “high” in her ideas, and her people might 
be “ high ” too; he did not want his future relations to look down 
updn him. ' But he did want a fair share of beauty. In choosing a 
wife, as in buying a horse, he had a right to expect good looks as 


t 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


35 


well as good qualities. And he wanted pleasant, lady-like ways, 

. and a nice temper, and an agreeable companion — not an intellectual 
one. He was a little afraid of clever women; of the two, he would 
have preferred a fool; having an idea — a very general, and a very 
erroneous one — that fools are easy people to manage. 

Poliy Brooke had seemed to meet all his requirements, only he 
was a little afraid that she was over-clever; he had said as much to 
Mrs. Williams, who had been his friend and confidante. It was 
very good of her, for Polly would be a terrible loss when she went 
away. “ But she will be sure to go, sooner or later,*’ said the poor 
lady to herself : "‘and it will be better that she should go so as to be 
a nice connection for the children, and perhaps, of use to them by- 
and-by. Besides, it will be such a good thing for herself,’* thought 
Mrs. Williams, to whom, as to Mr. Tomlyn, it seemed as if there 
was nothing left in this world for a woman if she did not succeed 
in becoming a wife. 

“ I don’t think she is too clever,” said Mrs. Williams, when this 
fear of Mr. Tomlyn’s had been communicated to her. “It*s the 
having to get her own living and think for herself gives her that 
^ay. It will all wear off 'when she has somebody else to think for 
her.” 

‘ ‘ Because I shouldn’t care to marry a woman who thought she 
had brains enough for the two of us,” said Mr. Tomlyn. “The 
head-piece of the family ought to be on the gentleman’s shoulders, 
not the lady’s.” 

Mr. Tomlyn took his seat in the dining-room, and put his hat on 
the table. It was a new one, and its glossiness shone in the gas- 
light. He was more carefully dressed than ever, and had a diamond 
ring, which he only wore on grand occasions, on his little finger. 
He seemed perfectly at home, and his self-possession and com- 
placency were more irritating to Polly than ever. 

“Don’t run away. Miss Brooke,” he said. “I may as well be 
frank, and say that I didn't expect to find Mrs. Williams at home, 
and I did expect to find you. The last time I was here I heard that 
Williams was going out to dinner, and Mrs. Williams was to have 
the carriage, and take the children to Hotting Hill ; so I thought I 
should find the coast clear; bat I didn’t expect to find you out. 
However, you’ve come back in good time, so there’s no harm done ; 
but if you hadn’t, I should have called again^ for I had something 
rather particular to say, and I should have called again to say it. 
Yes, I had made up my mind to say it, and I shbuld have called 
again.” 

“ If you’ll excuse my hearing it just now,” said Polly, who had, 
indeed, taken off her hat, but held it only on her arm, ‘‘ I should 
be glad. Mrs. Williams asked me to see that Miss Pembury had her 
tea in good time.” 

“Miss Pembury can wait,” said Mr. Tomlyn, a little testily. 
“ Perhaps you will find, when you have heard what I have to say, 
Miss Brooke, that you need not think so very much of Miss Pem- 
bury.” 

Polly seated herself. She felt sure now she knew what he was 
driving at, but he should have no help from her. Let him say 


36 SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 

what he had to say, and hear his answer. Perhaps it would sur- 
prise him. 

“lam all attention, Mr. Tomlyn,” she said, gravely laying her 
hat on the table, and folding her hands, with a certain demureness^ 
in her lap. 

Mr. Tomlyn drew his chair a little closer to hers, — close enough 
for him to put his arm on the back of the seat she occupied; ready,, 
if things went well — as, of course, they would go well — to put it 
round her waist. He did not want rnuch help, being prepared for a 
little coyness. All girls were shy, and pretended to be taken by 
surprise at such times, — most of all a girl would appear to be so to 
whom such an offer as he was about to make would give such a great 
elevation. Polly’s eyes were downcast; she felt that if she looked 
him in the face she would laugh outright; otherwise he might have 
seen something in them which would not have boded well for the 
success of his suit; but he thought her pretty, dimpling mouth had 
never looked so pretty and so tempting as it did now ; and he went 
on, more than ever satisfied with the wisdom of the course he was 
adopting. 

“ I think you must have known why Pye come here so often, Miss^ 
Brooke; and I don’t think my visits have been altogether unweP 
come to you.” 

“ I hope I should never have forgotten myself so much as to let 
any friend of Mr. and Mrs. Williams see that I thought them un- 
welcome,” said Polly, looking every bit the “ governess.” 

“ Oh, as to that, Williams is a good fellow in his way, and Mrs. 
Williams is very well in hers; but you would never have seen me- 
at Wurtemburg Street so often as you have done if it had not been 
for another attraction. Miss Brooke, I came to see you. I want a 
wife: every man ought to be settled at my age; and nothing would 
give me more pleasure than to be allowed to hope— that — that — 
*you would do me the honor of— of — ” 

“Accepting the situation,” thought Polly, but she said not a 
word. Sometimes ladies help gentlemen a little in such circum- 
stances. Polly was resolved to give no help at all. 

“ It’s not for me to boast. I don’t wish to boast,” said Mr. Tom- 
lyn, finding himself unable to finish his sentence, and so beginning 
another; but his every look, while he spoke, was a boast, — the man 
was so thoroughly satisfied with himself, so full of the honor and 
graciousness he was bestowing upon Polly, that she wanted no 
words to tell her of his feelings; “ but I think, in a pecuniar}^ point 
of view, you wo\ild be no loser. Miss Brooke. I should make set- 
tlements, as every man in business should make settlements — not 
that mine is a speculative one, still it is always right to be cautious; 
and I should take a moderate house somewhere in the suburbs, 
from a hundred to a hundred and fifty, — it never does to look at ten 
or twenty pounds, more or less, in the way of house-rent ; and in 
the way of dress for yourself, I should give you — well, say sixty 
pounds a-year.” 

Mr. Tomlyn looked at Polly as he thought all these glories would 
be too much for her. Polly still. kept her eyes bent modestly on 
her hands, and said simply, — 

“ Sixty! I’ve only sixteen now for everything! ” 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


37 


“ Yes; but I sliould like myVife to be well-dressed when she sits 
at the head of my table,” said Mr. Tomlyn, loftily. “ I daresay it 
will be a hundred by-and;by. I shouldn’t mind beginning with the 
hundred at once,” he said, magnanimously. 

But Polly looked so pretty, and her mouth was dimpling, as if 
ready to break out into smiles of thankfulness at his generosity. 

“ The silks and satins one might buy with a hundred a year!” 
said Polly, lifting her eyes, not to him, but to the ceiling, as if in 
a perfect fervor of gratitude, so Mr. Tomljm thought. He lowered 
his arm from the back of her chair to her waist, and was about to 
kiss tl\e mouth that seemed to grow sweeter and redder every mo- 
ment he looked at it, when Polly drew herself from him, and 
sprang to her feet, looking him fully in the face at last. “You 
haven’t bought me yet, Mr. Tomlyn ; and I’m not sure that you’ll 
buy me at all.” 

Mr. Tomlyn looked surprised and a little confused ; then he said, — 

“ I don’t quite understand you. Miss Brooke. I have paid you a 
compliment — the highest, it is generally supposed, that a gentleman 
can pay a lady — and you seem almost to resent my doing so.” 

“ It isn’t the compliment I mind so much,” said Polly, “ but the 
way of putting it. You have told me all you would give me, JMr. 
Tomlyn, just as if you were offering wages to a housekeeper. I 
don’t say the wages are bad ones, but I’ve no mind for the situa- 
tion.” 

“ Ain’t you speaking rather hastily. Miss Brooke? I don’t think 
you have quite given yourself time to reflect ; besides, young ladies 
are apt to say ‘No’ the first time of asking,” he added, with a 
faint attempt at jocularity. 

“ I shouldn’t,” said Polly, “if I meant yes; but I don’t mean it, 
Mr. Tomlyn.” 

“I — I— don’t think you have given the matter the consideration 
that I may say it deserves,” said Tomlyn. “ There are certain ad- 
vantages in the offer which I have made you; and you will excuse 
my sa3dng so. Miss Brooke, but a young lady,.,situated as you are, 
is not likely to meet with such an offer twice.” 

“ That’s very likely,” said Polly; “ and I really feel very much 
obliged for the honor you have done me; but still, I can’t accept it. 
I don’t think you and I should get on together very well.” 

“Is there anything you object to in me?” asked Mr. Tomlyn, 
with a little eagerness. 

But he could not yet believe himself refused. Perhaps the young 
lady was only pretending a coyness, in order to raise her value in 
his eyes. He stood u^ before Polly, and drew himself up to hi& 
full height, not a very great one, as if challenging her to look his 
fair proportions over and find a single fault. Poll}" did look at him. 
leisurely and calmly, and said, — 

“ Nothing in particular.” 

“Then is there anybody else you prefer to me? I thought — I 
flattered myself there was no prior attachment.” 

Mrs, Williams, whom he had sounded in the matter, assured him 
that to the best of her belief there was none. Polly never seemed 
to have any letters but from her step mother in the country, and she 
never went out, or seemed to wish to go out, unaccompanied by the 


38 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 

♦ 

-children. There could he no other attachment, she was sure. 

Because I should like to feel that the coast was clear,” said Mr. 
Tomlyn, ’feeling that, if the coast was clear, he should only have to 
walk over the course. I shouldn’t? wish, of course,” he now con- 
tinued, to Polly, to behave in a dishonorable manner to any one; 
still, a young lady should think of herself, and I think the proposal 
I have made you deserves a little consideration. Early attachments 
are not always prudent ones.” 

‘‘I never formed an attachment, in the ’way you mean, in my 
life,” said Polly. “ I don’t much think I ever shall. I’ve always 
had too much to do to think of falling in love.” 

“Then if there is nobody else in the way, I really don’t see why 
you should object to me,” said Mr. Tomlyn. 

“ It’s not merely that there’s nobody else in the way, but that I’ve 
no particular liking for you,” said Polly. 

“ You’re very plain-spoken. Miss Brooke,” said Mr. Tomlyn, 
with a little irritation; “ and I don’t think you’ve sufficiently con- 
sidered all the advantages you might gain by accepting the proposal 
I have made you. Governessing can’t be so very nice, and any day 
you may be thrown out of a situation.” 

“ Then I should have to look fpr another,” said Polly; “but the 
situation of your housekeeper would never suit me at all, Mr. Tom- 
lyn. It would be a permanent one, remember: no chance of a 
change. I’ve got to get my living, and governessing has its dis- 
agreeables; but I think the hardest way of getting a living must be 
to marry^for one. I’m very much flattered by the compliment 
you’ve paid me, but, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure Miss Pembury 
must want her tea. We dined early to day.” 

“I don’t wish to detain you. Miss Brooke,” was the answer, 

f iven with a little sullenness. ‘ ‘ Perhaps you may think this over. 

t’s worth thinking over. Most people would say so. It’s not every 
daj^ a young lady has such a chance of bettering her condition ; 
and if you should change your mind — ” 

“ I’ll oertainly let you know, Mr. Tomlyn; but I don’t think I 
shall. Good evening.” 


CHAPTER YlII. 

MILLICENT PEMBURY’S STORY. 

“So I’ve had an offer,” said Polly to herself, when in her bed- 
room. “ A real offer, after all! I wonder if 1 look an inch taller. 
I don’t suppose I shall ever have another. Such things don’t come 
often in one’s way. To think of it ! I might have had a husband 
of my own! • Sixty pounds — no, a hundred — for one’s fallals. Oh, 
dear, how nice to be able to walk down Regent Street without 
breaking one’s heart with envy of the fine things one sees and can’t 
possess. I daresay I should have had a carriage after a bit. Mr. Tom- 
lyn is sure to. make* money very fast. Just think of all that might 
’ have been, and then think of Miss Pembury’s tea.” 

Polly put her hat and jacket very carefully away. They w^ere 
her best; and she had not sixty pounds to spend. Then, smoothing 
her hair, as well as hair which was always trying to ripple and^ 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


39 


curl would be smoothed, she 'went downstairs, and desired Madge 
to take the tea into^he drawing-room. “ And I suppose Susan has 
told you,” she said, ‘‘that baby seemed very comfortable in her 
new quarters?” 

“ Yes,” — Madge’s face brightened up a little, — “ I’m glad it’s not 
in the workhus.” 

“ Ko; thanks to Miss Pembury, we can do better for it than that, 
and I daresay Mrs. Williams will let you go and see it after a while; 
and, as Mrs. Smith won’t have time for all the little things it 
wants, I’ve brought some pinafores home with me to do. Susan 
is going to help. Would you like to make one?” 

“Yes; and I can work rare and neat when 1 choose,” said 
Madge, with increasing interest in her tones. 

“ And I’m sure you’ll choose to do it for baby. Now let us have 
some tea, that’s a good girl. I’m quite tired.” 

“ Saying ‘ No’ is tiring,” said Polly to herself, as she went up 
theTiitchen stairs. “ What a difference the baby has made to that 
girl ! I wish I’d taken a little notice of her sooner. I don’t know 
that it would have been of much use though, if the baby hadn’t 
come. But there’s the making of a human being in her, after all. 
Baby has proved that clearly.” 

Miliicent Pembury laid down her novel, and turned toward the 
door with unusual interest. ‘ Polly thought how well such interest 
became her. It heightened her color, and made her eyes look 
their brightest. Polly liked pretty things, and Miliicent, with her fair 
hands, glistening with rings, on her -lap, her rich silken dress flow- 
ing round, looked more than “ pretty.” “ I daresay Miss Pembury 
would be very much amused if she were to* know that I have had 
my first offer, — my very first. I wonder how many have fallen 
to her share?” thought Polly, as she looked at her. 

“ Baby seems to be in very good hands,” she said, as she seated 
herself at a little distance from Miss Pembury; and she gave her a 
description of the place, winding up with a little passing praise of 
the young doctor. 

“ I should have thought a more airy place would have been bek 
ter,” said Miss Pembury. 

“ So it would ; and it would have been better if we could have 
had the child with people better able to carry it out of doors. But 
you may be able to find a more suitable home when you return to 
the country. Meanwhile, I think Susan’s mother will do very well; 
and, oh ! Miss Pembury, you cannot think h(‘W thankful I feel that 
the poor little creature is not to go to the workhouse, Only to 
think of its growing up another Madge ! ” 

“ As far as I see,” said Miss Pembury, with a faint smile, “ Madge 
isn’t so much worse than Susan. It’s true I haven’t taken a great 
deal of notice of either of them.” 

“ Oh, they both come under my eyes much more than they do 
under yours. Susan is full of faults — a very fair type of the great- 
est plague of life ; but at least she is a human being. If she scolds 
a child one minute, she’ll kiss it the next. Once, when my head 
ached, she hurried over her work to sit in the school-room and 
amuse the children for me ; while as to Madge, till this baby came 
into the home, I never knew her manifest the slightest interest in 


40 


SOME OF OUK GIELS. 


any living creature. She didn't care even for the cat! Now, I 
always consider that a girl who doesn’t care fbr dumb animals is 
something very much below an animal herself. ” 

Madge came in now with the tea-tray. She had been a long time 
preparing it; but the bread-and-butter was cut with great care, and 
the tray set accurately for once. Polly took her place at the tea- 
table, and over the meal the girls got better acquainted with each 
other than they had yet been. For once, Milly seemed drawn out 
of herself. The ba% had done it in the first instance, and crow 
Polly’s fresh naivete and cheerful sunny temper seemed to give a 
new light and warmth to their intercourse. When Polly left the 
room, which she did as soon as the meal was over, — it had certainly 
not been a short one, — instead of taking up her book again, she 
found herself thinking of “the governess,” and wondering how it 
was that, with so little to make her life bright, she could yet bring 
so much brightness with her. Milly had never thought of Polly at 
all before. 

A girl whose people had been in trade, who washed and dressed 
as well as taught the children she had charge of, was something as 
much beneath her notice as was either of the servants of the house. 
It was not, perhaps, that Millicent Pembury was proud, but she 
was shut up in her own world — bound in by her caste. It had 
never seemed as if she could have anything in common with these 
girls till the baby had come to the house, and appealed to them all 
alike. 

“Then, too, Milicent had had her troubles, at which I have 
hinted, and been, perhaps, selfishly engrossed by them. There had 
been shame as well as sorrow.to her — the shame of having loved 
unworthily; the feeling that she ought not to go on loving, and the 
impossibility of tearing the love from her heart. For she was a girl 
who had grown up in the belief that love to a woman meant every- 
thing; that a happy, successful love was the one indispensable con- 
dition of a woman’s life, unless that life was to be regarded in the 
light of an utter failure. 

Aunt Danvers, who had brought her up from the time she was 
ten years old, had been the means of her forming such ideas; and 
yet Aunt Danvers herself would have thought them absurdly ro- 
mantic, and said that nothing could have been further from her 
teachings. But not the less, Millicent Pembury had grown up 
under her aunt’s care with the idea that it was for man to crown and 
complete a woman’s life. But where she put love, Mrs. Danvers 
put marriage; and in a successful marriage, according to Mrs. Dan- 
vers’s idea of one, love was not at all a necessary ingredient — indeed, 
a love-match, in the opinion of Millicent’s aunt, was about the most 
absurd and foolish thing possible, and she took great credit to her- 
self for having prevented her niece from making one. 

This was how it had happened. This was the story and the sor- 
row of Millicent Pembury’s life. 

She had grown up a little queen in her kingdom under Aunt 
Danvers’s regency. The kingdom was not a very large one. The 
Pembury possessions in land had never brought them in above four 
thousand a-year, and they had never been people with the gift of 
saving. But they had always held their own in the county, and 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


41 


had been well regarded through successive generations. There was 
not a county family, according to Aunt Danvers— who had been 
a Miss Pembury b(3fore she married the first of her tliree husbands 
— better connected or more thought of. But they had died out, 
having a habit of marrying late in life, and of leaving very few chil- 
dren behind them ; so that when little Millicent came to her king- 
dom, on the death of her father,— her mother had died when she 
was a baby, — she had scarcely a connection but Aunt Danvers (who 
came over from Cheltenham, to devote herself, as she said, to her 
niece) and Sarah Pembury, now Mrs. Williams, who came humbly 
in the widow’s wake as useful companion. 

There were very few people in the neighborhood, so Mrs. Dan- 
vers said, who could associate with her niece. That part of Hert- 
fordshire had been taken possession of by the Londoners of a 
certain class, and they had built themselves new houses and bought 
old ones, till society had become, in the eyes of ,^sucli as Mrs. Dan- 
vers, a tradeocracy, with nothing but its money to recommend it. 
One after another of the old families had gone away, and their 
lands and mansions had been bought and “ improved ” by one rich 
citizen or another, till, within a circle of several miles around Pem- 
bury Hall, there remained but one house with whose inmates Mrs. 
Danvers deigned to associate. 

And the people who lived there — the Gordons — were, at least, 
free from the taint of money, though it might be there were worse 
taints than that hanging round them. The father, Horace Gordon, 
had been dead some years when Mrs. Danvers came to the regency 
of Pembury Hall, and his life had been such that there was little 
cause to regret his death even in the very prime of his manhood. 
He had left his property very much involved, and his widow did 
her best, during her son’s minority, to clear it. 

At the Holmes they lived very quietly ; saw but little company ; 
the fruit was sold, as it ripened, to a dealer in Covent Garden. 
There was neither a lady’s-maid nor a carriage, though, perhaps, 
when Mrs. Gordon married, she had thought both indispensable 
conditions of her existence. But Horace Gordon, the son, — he had 
his father’s name, and it might have been well if that had been all 
he had inherited from his father, — was sent to Harrow, and then 
to college, with an allowance almost as ample as that of any Gordon 
before him. 

And there was a miserable woman, slowly dying at Brampton, 
whom some other women in Mrs. Gordon’s place would have scout- 
ed and shunned as a very pariah and offscouring of the earth, and 
■ have left to starvation or the workhouse, to whom Mr. Gordon’^ 
widow still continued the allowance that had been made during his 
lifetime. She forgave her, for the sin was involuntary, and done 
in ignorance; but whether she ever forgave the husband who had 
wronged her, is another matter. Few women, indeed, have so 
much to forgive at the hands of any man as had the widow of 
Horace Gordon, and that other woman who had believed herself a 
wife in his lifetime, only to find, at his death, she was a thousand 
times worse than widowed. 

Mrs. Gordon was a generous woman, and she who had rivaled 
her so unconsciously could not possibly injure either her or her son. 


42 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


The sham Scottish marriage, which the poor thing had believed in 
so firmly, had taken place some years subsequently to Mrs. Gordon’s 
own, — perhaps when her husband was wearying of the wife who 
continued so long childless, — perhaps because he chose to indulge 
in a new and dangerous form of wickedness. But be that as it 
may, Mary Tynsdell had believed herself his wife, and her heart 
was broken when she discovered his sin and her own dishonor. 
Bhe was of weaker stuff than Mrs. Gordon, and had believed in the 
man, and loved him to the last — a thing which the other, who was 
of different material, had ceased to do fov many years. 

Mary Tynsdell had a son, of whom we have caught a glimpse, 
and shall have more to see by-and-by. He was a baby when his 
father died, and she gave him his father’s surname as a baptismal 
appellation. He was to be Gordon Tynsdell now, not Horace Gor- 
don, as she had once thought with such proud fondness. There 
was another Horace Gordon now. And after a year or two of slow 
decay she died, and Mrs. Gordon of the Holmes took charge of her 
child as well as of her own. 

Of Gordon Tynsdell, Millicent Pembury had seen nothing; in- 
deed, it is doubtful if she knew of his existence. Mrs. Danvers 
knew of it justT as she knew of every other piece of family history 
in the chronicles of her equals. But of Horace Gordon, Millicent 
had seen a great deal. 

Gordon Tynsdell never came to the Holmes. Mrs. Gordon put 
him to nurse, and then to school ; and his home in the holidays was 
with some relations of his mother, who knew all her miserable story. 
They were farmers in Somersetshire, and were kind to the boy, both 
for his mother’s sake and his own. He was grateful for their kind- 
ness, but never so grateful as he was to Mrs. Gordon. As he grew 
older, he saw something of her in London, something, too, of his 
half-brother; and there arose a feeling between the two young men 
which there is often wanting between whole-brothers. Horace was 
good-natured — those who said the worst things of him always said 
that ; and he was , sorry for Gordon, who had been so badly used. 
Gordon, too, had helped him out of one or two scrapes he had got 
into — helped him even with his purse, being much the more provi- 
dent of the two. There was a frank, warm feeling between the 
two, honest and brotherly on either side; that is, there had been 
this feeling, till Horace went wrong altogether, and showed that 
there was more of his father in him than his name. 

But, for Mrs. Gordon, Mary Tynsdell’s son had a reverence greater 
than many a son feels for his mother. She was his ideal of woman- 
hood — perhaps because he had not seen too much of her, and all 
that he,had seen had been too good and lofty and womanly. “ There 
is not one woman in a thousand would have done as she did by my 
mother,” he thought; and perhaps it was for her sake, more than 
for his own, that he gave so much liking to his brother — for 
her sake, too, that, when every one spoke ill of Horace, and his 
name had a bitter sound even in his mother’s ears, his half-brother 
would not wholly give him up. 

There was not much in common between Mrs. Danvers and Mrs. 
Tynsdell, but they were neighbors, widows, and had the same social 
position ; and thus it happened that a certain intimacy arose, and 


%OMB OF OUR GIRLS. 4^ 

their two young people saw very much of each other. Mrs. Dan- 
vers approved of their doing this. At that time, Horace Gordon 
promised fair to he a very good match even for the heiress of Pem- 
bury Hall. His mother had nursed his estates round successfully, 
so that when he became of age he was able to hold his own in the 
county. Millicent and he grew fond of one another — she of' him 
especially ; and after a time an engagement was duly entered into, 
and they were to be married when Millicent was one-and-twenty. 

It wanted but a yeai of that,- and Horace came up to Louden. His- 
mother had had a small house there the last three seasons, but he did 
not come with her now. He would have a little time as a bachelor 
first, he said; and from London he would go to one country- 
house and another, where he had been invited. Then he should 
come back to the Holmes and await his wedding there. 

He loved Millicent Pembury at this time. He had loved her for 
years, — not so much, perhaps, as she had loved him, for he was of 
a weak, unstable nature, in which no strong feeling could take root. 
Still he loved her; and if it had not been for this whim of 
spending a few months of his unmarried life in London, and the 
wish to take a yet further flight into the country, things might have- 
been altogether different, and his name have been stainless and hon- 
ored, instead of being, as it was now, tarnished and dishonored, as; 
Was his father’s. 

He had not been two days in London before he met with a cer~ 
tain Mrs. Towers. She had been a Miss Pauli when he flrst knew 
her, and he had known her now at intervals that extended over 
tht;ee years. She was his own age — six-apd-twenty — perhaps a few 
months his senior; and there had been between them, if not. exactly 
love-making, still a great deal that looked very like it. Adela Pauli 
was a girl who had nothing to look to but marriage. If she did not 
marry, there would not be fifty pounds a-year for her at her father’s- 
death; for the Paulis were a large family, and the head of the house 
was not a provident man. She would have liked very well to have 
married Horace Gordon. The only trade she had ever been brought 
up to was husband-hunting; there was no way for her of getting a 
living but by’ marrying for it. If she did not marry, what was there 
for her to look forward to? Adela never dared look forward ; the 
prospect would have been too horrible. She did like Horace Gor- 
don. I'here was much in him that was very likeable; he was hand- 
some, pleasant-mannered, and, as I have said, good-natured — ah! 
with that facile good -nature which is so often the ruin of a man’s 
life. He was kind-hearted too. If he had been a harder, sterner 
man altogether, that would never have befallen which did befall 
him. 

But of Adela Pauli, Horace had little more thought than he had 
for other young ladies with whom he found it pleasant to dance, 
and talk, and spend his idle hours. For his heart was with the 
young heiress of Pembury Hall ; and when he left London, with- 
out having made the offer which Adela expected, and which her 
mother and sisters thought she had a right to expect, and a Mr. 
Towers made her an offer, wdiich nobody had expected of him at 
all, she took him at once. She knew little of him but that he tvas 
faiily rich, that his manners were tolerable, that he visited in a good 


44 SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 

circle, and that there was nothing repulsive or objectionable about 

him. 

Still, at that'time, it is very likely that if Riquet wuth the Tuft, 
without his wit and with his hump, had proposed, she would have 
taken him ; for, as she would have said to herself, what else was 
there for her to do? There was nothing she could do but marry, 
and so she married. 

Mr. Towers was thirty years her senior, and he had always been 
one of those men who are never young, even in their youth. He 
was near, too, bad-tempered, and difficult to live with. Altogether, 
Adela found that her marriage had not been such a good bargain 
after all. She was not a happy woman and was likely to be a very 
miserable one. She had not much power of spending the money 
which she had sold herself to spend, and she found herself linked 
to a man with not much care or consideration for any one but him- 
self. 

Then she came across Horace Gordon again. It was at the house 
of one of the friends he was visiting, and she was staying there 
with her husband. Seeing him now, she felt as if she loved him 
as she had never thought it possible she could love before. His 
youth and his pleasantness, and his sunny temper, made such a 
contract to her husband. She knew nothing of his engagement; 
Horace had intended to enjoy these, the last days of his freedom, 
to the full. Seeing him, there was always the wretched* “ mi^ht 
have been” occurring to her. For Horace was kinder, gentler, 
pleasanter than ever; he was so full of pity for her that she should 
be married to such a curt 

Then he showed Ids pity, and she told her sorrows, and he began 
to believe that it was pique at his neglect which had driven her into 
the arms of this man. He was flattered by this, for Adela Towers 
was handsomer than ever Adela Pauli had been; and she led him 
on, and was led on herself. One sickens as one writes of the mis- 
erable story of shame, and weakness, and sin ; but so it was that 
Adela Towers went wrong a second time. The first time had been 
that wretched unloving marriage of hers ; and Horace proved him- 
self his father’s own son, b}^ forgetting honor, truth, every tie that 
bound him to his mother, and the girl who was waiting to be his 
wife, by running away with Adela three days after she had re- 
turned with her husband to London. 

At first his mother thought this blow would kill her. It shocked 
and wounded her even more than any sin of her husband’s had 
ever done; for she had built so much on her son. He had been 
her consolation and her strength. He was to make up to her for all 
that she had suffered in those wretched early years of her marriage. 
And now her consolation had become her curse ; her strength had 
proved itself most utter weakness; and instead of the sufferings 
and ignominies of the past years being made up to her, they were 
to be trebled in their pain and their humiliation. 

But she did not die. There are strong women, who are strongest 
of all in their suffering. After a little time, during which she shut 
herself up, and would see no one, for very shame," as it seemed, for 
being the mother of such a son, she went about much in her old 
way. It had always had a certain quiet gravity about it. She 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS, 


45 


looked after the household, as she had always done, and saw to her 
own matters of business. But her son’s she would have nothing to 
■do with. She had saved and spared, and toiled, as few women of her 
class could Or would have done, and all for him to spend the fruits 
of such savings in riot and wickedness ! Let him, while he stayed 
away with the partner of his sin, find an agent to look after his es- 
tate. She would trouble herself about it no more. And if he 
came back to the Holmes alone, she might stay there, but would re- 
fuse to see him; and if he brought Adela Towers there, either 
while she bore that name, or when the law had allowed her to take 
his own, she would leave the place at once. 

But the prodigal did return long before he was looked for. Milli- 
cent Pembury fell ill — dangerously ill, and the news of her illness 
reached his ears. He went to the Holmes, and liis mother would 
not see him. Then he withdrew himself to the village inn, saying 
ho would not stay under his own roof if his doing so involved her 
shutting herself up in her apartments. But he would not leave the 
neighborhood till he heard that Milliccnt was out of danger; then 
he sought Mrs. Danvers, and implored to be allowed to see her. 

He asked it humbly enough ; indeed, he was very humble just 
now. He had not been a week with Adela Towers when he found 
that he did not love her at all, and that he loved Millicent more 
than ever. He was not prepared to make^he only reparation in his 
power to the woman who had sinned with him, if her husband 
divorced her. That would involve the sacrifice of his whole life. 
He would do anything short of that.^ Provide for her as liberally as 
his means allowed; but marry her! Surely, with Millicent Pern- 
hury dying for him, that would be too much for him to do. 

Mrs. Danvers received him with a certain frigid politeness, ad- 
mirably adapted to the circumstances. She had been very much 
annoyed by his escapade — the euphemism is her own— -and propriety 
required that she should seem shocked and horrified; and, what- 
ever propriety required, Mrs. Danvers always did. But her real 
feeling had been one of annoyance and irritation. Y oung men would 
do such things — nobody was more ready to make allowance for the 
misconduct of young men than Mrs. Danvers; but why should this 
especial young man have chosen such an inopportune time to mis- 
behave ‘himself? 

It was impossible for Millicent to condofie his offense just yet. If 
he had committed it three or four years ago, when he came of age, 
and there was no engagement between them, a decent time would 
have elapsed for the scandal to have been forgotten. But now, 
with the story fresh in every one’s mouth, when every one knew, 
too, of the insult to Millicent by this folly being perpetrated during 
his very engagement to her, how would it be possible for her to 
forgive his misdoings? And as to waiting till the scandal had sub- 
sided, that would be an affair of years, and no one knew what 
might happen in the interim. It would be an expensive affair, too: 
he must provide for that wretched Mrs. Towers ; and that would 
make him so much the poorer a man than when he had offered 
himself to Millicent. It was clearly not worth Millicent’s while to 
-wait till the stir caused by his misdeeds had subsided, when such 


'46 SOME OE OUR* GIRLS. 

waiting would involve the loss of three or four of the best years of- 
her life. 

Mrs. Danvers did not put all this in words. She was severe and 
cold toward Horace, letting him see his sin was one she thought 
past all forgiveness. He could not see Millicent, — that was out of 
the question, she told him, — and everything must be at an end 
between them. But he did see Millicent; he waited and waited in 
the village till ,she was better, and then, one day, contrived to thrust 
himself into her presence. At first she would neither speak to him f 
nor suffer hini to utter a word in his defense. But she had loved 
Horace Gordon dea^;f, and she loved him still; and she found her- 
self listening to his prayers for pardon, and his protestations that in 
all his madness and his weakness he had loved her alone. She 
wmuld have forgiven him; she would have overlooked everything, 
in the belief that his love had always been hers, had it not been for 
his own mother, whom Mrs. Danvers called to the rescue. She 
told her that a woman would not be worth the name if she could 
forgive such an offense as Horace had been guilty of, and become his 
wife ; that if, after his sin, he married at all, it must be the wretched 
partner of his sin. That would possibly complete the ruin of his 
life, but there was nothing else for him now but ruin. 

Millicent acquiesced, and felt that for her, too, life was over; and 
there came, not a relapse into the fever from which she had just re- 
covered, but something e-^n worse — a long, lingering dying; so it 
seemed to the poor girl ; just because life was no longer worth the 
living. Then she took a little cold, and it settled on her lungs, and 
Aunt Danvers feared consumptipn. The family medical attendant 
looked grave, and it was thought well that she should go to London 
and have other advice. “ A change must do her good, in any case,’' 
said Aunt Danvers; ''and .she will be safe enough with Sarah 
Williams." 

And so she had come to Wurtemburg Street, and the inherent 
vitality within her had asserted itself. She was stronger than she 
had thought for — too strong, as yet, to die; and there was all life- 
fifty years, it might be of aimless, sunless, joyless life — stretching 
out wearily before her. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HORACE GORDON. 

Polly had gone upstairs to proceed with some little* matters 
■ which required her attention, when "Susan came to the drawing- 
room, and, with a slight air of mystery and importance, handed a 
note to Miss Pembury. 

"It was giv’ to me, miss, by a gentleman as was passin’ just as I 
had gone to the door, thinkin’ I heard a knock ; he’s waitin’, miss, 
to know if there’s an answer. I told him,’’ said Susan, lowering her 
voice to a still more mysterious whisper, " you was alone, and that 
I’d give it to you at once.’’ 

^ Susan looked profoundly interested — and she was so. Miss Pem- 
i bury was a veritable heroine of romance in her eyes. She had 
1 made up her mind from the first that her illness arose from some 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


47 


disappointment in love. Susan was always in love- herself; gener- 
ally with two at a time. There was a standing lover, the young 
man she kept company with, who waited for her every Sunday by 
the lamp-post at the corner of the street, and was usually a baker, 
and retained his situation (in Susan’s heart) about a twelvemonth. 
There was always a policeman or two — generally the one whose 
beat included the house where Susan officiated pro tern, ; but, of 
course, she had to change him when she changed her place. If the 
policeman on duty happened to be married, or otherwise monopo- 
lized, Susan generally consoled herself with the postman. But she 
preferred policemen, though she never attempted to regale them at 
her mistress’s expense; indeed, at Mrs. Williams’s it would not 
have been easy to do so. She had been looking out for the police- 
man while waiting at the street door, it being a pure fiction that she 
had heard a knock. 

Miss Pembury looked at the note, which consisted of a few hur- 
ried, imploring words, signed “ H. G-.,” in a hand she knew but too 
well; then she laid it down, and was trying ta nerve herself to say 
there was no answer, but found the words would not come to her 
lips. She turned very pale, and Susan, full of sympathy, broke 
in,— 

“The gentleman looked dreadful anxious, miss: an’ do let me 
get you some water. I told him you was alone in ^the drawing- 
room, an’ he said may be you’d see him; so I left him in the hall 
while I came up; an’ can I get you your salts, miss, or a little 
salrilatile, for I think I hear his step on the stairs ! I’d never have 
let him in, miss; but I see he was a gentleman, and looked so ear- 
nest. An’, oh ! miss, forgive the liberty, but it’s an awful thing to 
drive a young gentleman like that to desperation.” 

Susan’s warmest sympathies were enlisted in favor of Horace 
Gordon. She would have pleaded his cause with equal ardor even 
if he had not slipped a sovereign into her hand along with the note: 
but still the sovereign heightened the romance and despair of the 
•situation. A gentleman must be very much in love indeed to give 
so much on the mere hope of seeing his lady. Susan had never felt 
•so elated or important in her life as while she was speaking now to 
Miss Pembury. She was third person in a story as good as any she 
had ever read in any of her penny sensationals. Millicent Pembury 
sat unable to speak or move, the words she should have said chok- 
ing in her throat ; and Horace’s step sounded on the stairs, and he 
was coming — nearer, nearer, nearer. The room seemed going 
Tound. Susan’s voice sounded like the buzz of an insect. She tried 
to speak, to stand upright, to compose herself, and it was all in 
Tain. All pride, all' dignity, all womanly disdain were sobbed 
away as her tears fell fast on Horace Gordon’s bosom. 

Susan knew better than to stay when he entered the room. She 
closed the door behind her when she withdrew, and gave a great 
gasp of delight and emotion. Then she went downstairs, and found 
Madge, slowly and with much painstaking, hemming the pinafore 
for the baby. Susan felt as if she must speak — must have some 
outlet for her feelings; they would be too much for her else. 

“What a day this has been, to be sure!” she said. But Madge 
took no notice. One idea at a time seemed as much as her brain 


48 


SOME OE OUE GIRLS. 


would hold; and she went on with her hemming, quite unmoved by 
Susan’s excitement. “To think of it! Miss Pembury’s lover has 
come 1 1 knew she had one. Now, Madge, if you are a good girl, 

—and you really have behaved a little more like a Christen to-day, — 
ril manage to let you see him.” 

“ Don’t care to,” said Madge, still putting her stitches in and out 
with the slow deliberation that always characterized her movements. 
“Never did care about anybody’s young man. One’s as good as 
another, for all I see.” 

“There’s no putting any sense into your head!” cried Susan in- 
dignantly. 

Then she went to the street-door to look out for the policeman. 
He would be sure to find time for a few words. 

Upstairs, Horace Gordon was using all his eloquence to induce 
Millicent to forgive him. If he had but known it, she had done 
that long since. All the magnitude of his sin against God, against 
society, against herself, was forgotten in her love. For himself, he 
was miserable— almost as much so as he deserved to be. He was^ 
weak and vacillating as one of Mr. Trollope’s heroes. For a little 
time he had thought himself in love with Adela Towers, only ta 
find, now that with him and for him she had gone headlong to her 
ruin, he had never really cared for her. Now he was urging MiU 
licent to save him, to save herself, by becoming his wife. 

And she was listening just as she had listened before, and felt 
herself again on the verge of yielding, when the door opened, and 
Polly came in with her work-basket. She had come to ask Millicent 
if she should spend the remainder of the evening with her. She- 
was about to go awa}’’ at once, feeling that she was not wanted, 
when Millicent called to her to stay. It was a desperate yearning ta 
gain time. She would not yield yet. Alone with Horace, she felt 
as if she must promise everything he asked her — as if all in this 
world was worth nothing if he askeji her to sacrifice it for him. 
Polly’s sunny, good-tempered face recalled her to something of her 
better self. There was something besides passion and love in the- 
world, after all. 

“Just stay. Miss Brooke,” she said faintly; “ Mr. Gordon is going 
directly.” 

Horace imderstood that she meant him to go; that just then was 
no time to utter either protestations of love or appeals for pity. Al- 
most unconscious why she was doing so, Millicent kept Polly near 
her, putting her hand out, as the other took her seat near her, as if 
to ask for protection. Polly took it; the thin, white fingers were- 
cold and clammy. “There’s something wrong,” thought the girl, 
“ That young gentleman has something to do with Miss Pembury’s 
cough, and her staying in London for medical advice. He’s beauti- 
fully dressed, and he’s very nice-looking, and where on earth have- 
I seen such a face before?” 

It was the likeness to Gordon Tynsdell that struck her, though 
at first she could not remember of whom it was that Horace Gordon 
reminded her. But the likeness was only in features — the turn of 
the head, and the wave, and the color of the hair. When you came 
to expression, the resemblance was wholly wanting. Gordon Tyns- 
dell looked prompt, resolute, good-tempered — a inan with all his 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


49 

energies and powers ready for instantaneous use; but with Horace 
Gordon there was a total want of either energy or power. He was 
the handsomer of the two, there could be no question about that; 
but there was a weakness, an indecision in the eye and the lip, that 
Polly’s quick eyes detected instantaneously, and which roused her 
contempt. Polly had little sympathy for weakness in a woman, 
none whatever when it manifested itself in a man, “ They set them- 
selves up for our rulers and guides,” said Polly, who was emphatic- 
ally a girl of our day, and had her own -ideas as to the relative 
position of men and women; “ let them show themselves fit for the 
post they claim — if they can.” 

Horace Gordon could not go yet. Instead of making a graceful 
retreat, he preferred staying on — awkwardly. He tried to talk of 
indifferent subjects, and Millicent could only answer by the faintest 
yes or no. Polly would not help him at all in making conversation, 
but sat with Millicent’s hand in her own, watching him keenly. 

“ It will never do for him to marry Miss Pembury,” she thought. 

He wants a wife to take care of him, and she will always want a 
husband to take care of her. Ho, that will never do. But who is 
it that he reminds me of ? I know! That young doctor I saw to- 
day, only the doctor has much the better face of the two, and I 
should say is ten times the cleverer and more capable man.” • 

At last Horace Gordon rose to go. It was utterly useless, he felt, 
his staying there. Millicent would not see him alone. But as he 
held her hand, which he had withdrawn from Polly’s soft, supple 
grasp, to place in his feverish one, he said, in a questioning tone, — 

“ I shall see you again soon, or at least hear from you?” 

“ I — I will write,” said Millicent, falt^ringly. 

“ And for God’s sake let it be soon!” he urged. “ If you could 
but know, if you could but realize, how everything to me depends 
upon hearing from you ! ” 

Then he went away. Susan, standing at the door listening to the 
retreating steps of her policeman, let him out, looking at him with 
a little furtive, sympathizing curiosity. “Poor young man! he 
hasn’t got on so w^ell as he’d have liked. I should say that Miss 
Pembury’s a hard one. Ladies often is. If I was a gentleman. I’d 
rather have a girl with a little feelin’ in her, so long as she was 
nice-lookin’, an’ come of decent people, than I would a fine lady, 
that thought of nothing but herself. And I’m sure he’s one that 
needn’t stand airs from nobody. I wouldn’t neither, if I was him.” 


CHAPTER X. 

DRAWN CLOSER STILL. 

Polly still kept her seat on the couch by Miss Pembury’s side, 
wondering whether the young lady wished her to go or stay. As 
to Millicent, she sat for a little time in her usual listless attitude, 
with her hands in her lap ; then presently, as if possessed by some 
uncontrollable agitation, arose, and began walking hurriedly up 
and down the room, in a manner wholl}^ different from her usual 
languid self-possession. Her head was burning, her eyeballs throb- 
bing. She would have given the world to have flung herself on the 


50 SOME OF. OUli GIRLS. 

ground, and moaned and cried her life away. But tears would not 
come, and life would not go; and her lover had told her, half-an- 
hour back, that if he was ruined in this world and the next it would 
he her doing; and she had promised to save him, and now felt as if 
she could neither break her word nor keep it. 

Presently she stopped, and flung herself by Polly’s ^ide. “Miss 
Brooke, I must speak! — I shall die or go mad if I don’t. I have no 
sister, no mother. You are only another girl; but I watched you 
with that baby to day, and you seemed to have known trouble, or 
you would not have been so pitiful. I wonder if you could pity or 
jtielp me?” 

“I’ll try,” said Polly, putting her arm round her, and drawing 
the slight figure closer to her. “ Only let me know your trouble, 
Miss Pembury, and w^ll see if anything can be done. It may do 
you some good even to speak of it.” 

“ It’s just the keeping it in, to myself, that seems eating away 
my very life,” said Millicent. “ Mrs. Williams is a good creature, 
but I couldn’t speak to her of this, — she wouldn’t understand ; and 
as to Aunt Danvers — why, when a woman has had three husbands, 
how^ is it possible she can ever have cared enough for any one of 
them to know what love really is? But you — you are another girl, 
just like myself ; and you look as if you could feel and suffer.” 

“Just tell me,” said Polly, in a caressing tone, drawing the 
other a little closer to her. were only two girls now; there 

was no question about one being a well-born young lady and an 
heiress, and the other a poor little governess, of no birth at all 
worth speaking of. “Just tell me all about it. And let’s see what 
can be done.” 

Polly had the gift which some few people have of inspiring confi- 
dence. People felt drawn to tell her their troubles. She knew 
more of Mrs. Williams than did her husband. She could go out 
of her self and enter into another’s identity, and understand just 
where the smart was the keenest, and the hurt the most hard to bear. 
She knew that what Millicent most wanted, now, was to break 
through the reserve and silence which had been freezing her soul. 
If once her troubles could be spoken o% very likely she would not 
find them one-half so hard to bear. 

“ Tell me all about it,” she said, gently; and then she heard the 
whole miserable story. 

“ That is all very terrible,” said Polly,, when Millicent had fin- 
ished. “ Mr. Gordon has ruined himself for life, and that unhappy 
creature too.” 

“ Don’t speak of her,” said -Millicent, impatiently. “ This would 
never have been but for her.” 

“She’ll have, to suffer enough, anyhow,” said Polly; “but I 
don’t yet understand why Mr. Gordon came here.” 

“ He — he — wants me to look it over — to forgive him,” said IVIilli- 
cent, faintly. 

“ Well, f d forgive him, and tell him to mend his ways.” 

“Yes; but that is not all. Oh, don’t you see how wretched and 
lost he will be if I cast him off? That woman will think him 
bound to marry her when her husband has set her free, and he 
does not, and never did, care for her. It was all infatuation on his 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 51 

part. He would' provide for her, of course ; but to make her his 
wife! Oh, I cannot, I cannot give him up to her!” 

Millicent was sobbing violently now, and Polly was fairly puzzled 
how to console her. That any girl with claims to honor and purity 
should care for one who had proved himself so weak, false, and 
unworthy as had Horace Gordon, was more than she could under- 
stand. But IVIiss Pembury did care for him, clearly, and she was cer- 
tainly a good girl, though a deplorably weak one. “ I cannot give 
him up !” she repeated ; “ I cannot let him drift away like this! I 
believe it would save him if I were to marry him, and I have all 
but promised him to do so. ‘ And yet I know that Aunt Danvers 
will make it all but impossible for me to keep my word.’' 

“I don’t think you ought to keep it,” said Polly, gTavely. ‘‘A 
man who has done what Mr. Gordon has is not fit to be the husband 
of any one but that wretched woman. You could never respect 
him — you could never look up to him after this. If his love had 
been worth a straw, he would never have forgotten himself — for- 
gotten ! — sinned 1 Oh, Miss Pembury, this man isn’t fit to be in the 
same room with you, and yet you can think of being his wife ! ” 
Because, let him be what he may, I love him as much as I ever 
did— more, it seems to me, because of his very weakness; and just 
think what my life will be if I do not give it to him. Aunt Dan- 
vers is bent on seeing me married. I shall have to take any one 
she thinks fit, — somebody that I don’t care for in the least. I shall 
mever care in that way for anybody again; wouldn’t it be better to? 
do what I can to save Horace, and make the best, even if it is a 
poor best, of things, after all?” 

It will be a poor best, indeed!” thought Polly. '‘1 don’t see 
why you neea marry at all,” she said. “ And as to saving Mr. 
Gordon,' I don’t think, if a man isn’t strong enough to stand alone,, 
that he will be much the better for having a woman to lean upon. 
Are you sure you’re strong enough for the task?’^ 

“ I don’t know — I don’t know,” moaned Millicent. “ Sometimes 
it seems to me as if I could lay down my life to make Horace 
happy; and then the thought of what he has done comes upon me 
like a horror. Oh,^if I could only die, and be rid of it all!” 

Indeed Millicent* Pembury was weary of her life, ^e shrank 
from her lover — there . was the memory of his sin rising forever be- 
fore her, so that his very touch at times seemed a contamination; 
aRd yet she loved him with all her heart, or rather she had got into- 
such a habit of loving that it seemed impossible to live without it. 
And she had been brought up in the belief that if a woman did not 
marry there ’was nothing else for her. And to marry as her aunt 
wished her, and to go on to the end of her days the unloving wife- 
of a common-place husband, after all the paradise that Horace’s 
love had opened to her, seemed not to be borne. As she said, if 
she could only die, and be rid of it all ! 

“You will be better to-morrow,” said Polly, gently. “Don’t 
you think we can talk things over more to the purpose then? It seems 
to me you are tired of your life before you know all its value. And 
you have been very ill, and are not yet strong. Let me be your 
maid to-night, and help you to undress. The sooner you lie down 
the better. ” 


52 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


Millicent let herself be persuaded, and was glad, indeed, to lay 
her head down on her pillow, and see Polly sitting by her side. 
She dropped off asleep like a tired child, and then Polly kissed her 
tenderly. “I am glad she has told me everything. I shall know 
how to help her now ; but not to marry Mr. Horace Gordon, if I 
can help it.’' 


CHAPTEK XI. 

MRS. WILLIAMS DOES HER BEST. 

Mr. Tomlyn was an aggrieved man, and he carried his griev- 
ances to Mrs. Williams. He told her that he had been refused, and 
that Miss Brooke seemed unable to give any reason whatever for 
refusing him. “If she had liked anybody else that she had seen 
first, I could have understood it,” he said; “ though I think, then, 
she might have given my proposal a little consideration. Such an 
offer isn’t to be met with every day.” 

“I should think not, indeed!” said Mrs. Williams. “But girls 
never know what is best for themselves. Would you like me to 
speak to her, Mr. Tomlyn?” 

“ Weil, I think there’d be no harm in doing that. I don’t think 
she can have given the matter the consideration it deserves. Of course 
there are wives in plenty. Young ladies are tc be had like black- 
berries on bushes, the only trouble sometimes is,” he added, with a 
laugh, which, if Polly Brooke' had entertained any, the slightest, 
relenting in his favor, would have dispelled such relenting at once, 
“ to know which to choose. I did give Miss Brooke credit for 
sense enough to know that. Why,, what will a girl like that do if 
she doesn’t get married?” he added, looking fixedly at Mrs. Wil- 
liams. “Go on governessing to the end of her days, at sixteen 
pounds a year — She’s deuced cheap at the money, I must say ; but I 
suppose it’s all you can afford to give — when she might be my wife, 
with a good house and servants, and by-and-by, a carriage. I’m 
not given to boast, but I see my way to that, and anything in rea- 
son for pip-money. There’s nothing I’d deny a woman in the way 
of dress. I think a man must be a mean fellow if he doesn’t like 
his wife, to do him credit.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Williams, with a sigh of almost envy at 
the glorious possibilities awaiting Polly. She had married because 
there was nothing else for her to do, and wdiat a very poor bargain 
she had made compared to the one that was offered to Polly. 
“ You’re liberality itself,” she said. “ I can’t think how it is, that 
Polly doesn’t see it.” 

“ I may have been too abrupt,” said Mr. Tomlyn, modestly, with 
the air of a Jupiter, who, however convinced of his general infalli- 
bility, deigns to own that he may nod once in a while. “ Business 
men don’t always measure their words as those may do to whom 
talking is their only trade, and she may be tetchy, and have taken 
offense. I didn’t think she was tetchy. Still, I don’t know that I 
like her any the worse. I like the woman I marry to have a good 
opinion of herself; it isn’t every woman, you know, I should marry. 
Perhaps you’ll tell Miss Brooke I’m to be judged by my deeds, not 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


53 


by my words; and there are not many men who would take a girl 
without a penny and behave so handsomely as I’m ready to do. 
She’s got no father or mother living, I think you told me? That’s 
just as well. If one marries a wife, one doesn’t want to marry her 
family ; still, if she had had anybody living belonging to her, they 
might have put the thing to her in a rational light.” 

‘ ‘ She has only a step-mother, not very much older than herself, 
and she’s staying at her father’s in the country. If she were in town, 
she might talk to Poll}^; but I don’t think it would do the good that 
advice would from an older person. I’ll see what I can do, Mr. 
Tomlyn, you may be sure, though she’ll be a greater loss to me than 
you can imagine.” 

“ Oh, as to that, we must make it up one way or another. Will- 
iams shall be the family doctor. Physic the little ones when they 
come. I dare say he’ll find me better pay than most of his patients 
about here. Well, I’ll leave it to you to make it all right with Miss 
Brooke, and I'll call again in a day or two.” 

When he had gone, Mrs. Williams thought she would try and 

make.it all right ” at once. “ She never can mean to refuse him,” 
she thought; “only, perhaps, as he says, he spoke abruptly; and 
she has rather a high spirit of her own. It would be such a good 
thing for her, and no doubt Mr. Williams would have them for 
patients ; and, though I should miss her, still there are many ways 
in which she could make it up to the children — especially, by-and- 
by, when the girls grow older.” 

tip the narrow, toilsome stairs of the London house Mrs. Will- 
iams went. The last fiight was uncarpeted, in accordance with the 
spirit of economy that ruled through the house. She opened the 
door of the school-room, apd found Polly, as she had expected, 
alone, the last of her pupils having just been put to bed. The room 
was of a fair size, but barely furnished, with Windsor chairs, and^n 
old-fashioned mahogany table with folding leaves, that had been 
picked up second-hand in Gray’s Inn Lane. The carpet was wear- 
ing into holes; it had been bought second-hand too. The windows 
were curtainless, and the one gas-light which hung from the center 
of the room had no glass burner. There were a few colored pict-. 
ures, from the Illusiraied News, pinned on the walls, and some 
book-shelves in the corner, with some battered school-books, and a 
few still more battered volumes of a lighter kind. Somehow, the 
room had never looked so bare and so poverty-stricken as it did now 
to Mrs. Williams. 'Perhaps it was the contrast between Polly’s 
present and the future that was awaiting her if she only chose to 
take it. 

“To think of her staying here,” thought poor Mrs. Williams, 
“when she might have a villa in the Regent’s Park, with a draw- 
ing-room in black and gold ! She can t mean it — no girl could 
seriously mean it; and to look at her there mending Johnny’s 
socks!” 

Polly sat by the fire, with her work-basket before her, humming 
a tune, and darning the holes Master Johnny’s toes had worn. In 
spite of her black dress, she was the one bit of brightness in the 
room as the gas-light fell on her waving hair, her fresh complexion, 
and the scarlet bows on her head and throat. She looked up cheer- 


54 


SOME OE OUK GIRLS. 


fully as Mrs. Williams came in, and handed her a chair, not with, 
the air of a dependant, but rather like a lady doing the honors of 
her own apartment. Mrs. Williams took the chair, and said, a little 
fretfully, but still kindly, — 

“Put down your work, my dear — somehow I don’t like seeing- 
you do it. It does seem so out of place under present circum- 
stances. I suppose, though,” she added, remembering the con- 
stantly recurring dilapidations, “it’s only right jou should diO it,* 
while you sf ay here, or else I don’t know where the children’s 
things would be.” 

“ You’re not going to send me away I hope?” said Polly, with a 
smile, that showed she felt tolerably secure in her present situation. 

“No, my dear; I don’t know what I should do without you. 
As I say sometimes to Mr. Williams, you are more like a daughter * 
or a younger sister in the house than any one paid. Still, I ought 
not to think of myself alone. I can’t expect you to stay with me 
always; and when a girl has an offer, and such an offer as you 
^ had the other day, why, it is the duty of her friends to tell her she- 
should accept it.” 

“Oh,” said Polly, “I suppose you mean Mr. Tomlyn’s? I 
thought that was settled.” 

“ My dear,” cried Mrs. Williams, with a little whimper of sur- 
prise, “ you talk as if you had offers every day of your life!” 

“Bo I?” said Polly. “Then I don’t mean to do so. Mr. Tom- 
lyn’s proposal is the first I ever received, and I daresay I shall never 
have another. I’ve never been in the way of love-making; I had. 
always so much else to think of while poor papa was alive. There 
were the books to keep and the assistants to look after, and see 
that they were comfortable ; and poor M-andie and her babies, there 
was always one being born or dying, and the little woman wasn’t 
much better than a baby herself; and poor papa always ailing the 
last few years more or less; so you see, Mrs. Williams, I really had 
no time for love-making. I think one of the assistants did try 
something of the kind,” said Polly, refiectively; “ he was. young, 
and ours was his first situation, so I suppose he thought he was 
bound to make love to his master’s daughter; but I told him if he 
took any nonsense of that kind in his head, he’d be poisoning 
people, — giving them arsenic instead of salts, — and that I should 
have to mix the prescriptions up myself, instead of trusting him 
with them. That snubbing did him good for a time, but he broke out 
again — I think Mandie encouraged him, she was always a silly 
little goose; so I told papa he must go, and he went; and as we 
couldn’t get another just as soon as we wanted, papa sat in the 
shop and received the prescriptions, and heard what people had to 
say, and I did all the real work in the back parlor.” 

“ You made up the medicines!” said Mrs. Williams, with a little 
faint horror. All her emotions were faint and feeble. Poor thing! 
all force and vitality had long since departed from her. 

“ Yes, I made them up,” said Polly, triumphantly. “I didn’t 
poison anybody. Oh, dear! if I’d only been a boy, instead of a 
; girl, I could have kept on the shop, and Mandie, and the babies 
too. I should have made a ^good chemist, I know I should. I 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS 55 

liked it, and it’s nice, neat, fiddling work — just fit for women’s 
fingers. Why don’t they let the women do it?” 

“You have such odd notions, Polly,” said Mrs. Williams, who, 
if her weakness had any strength whatever, had it in the con- 
ventionalities. . “ Why, you’ll want to be a doctor next!” 

“And I’m sure I should make a good one,’’ said Polly. “I 
only wish I’d the chance.’! 

“But, Polly — the — the indelicacy of it,” gasped Mrs. Williams; 
^'the getting out of bed at all hours; the having to huddle on 
your things anyhow ; the hurrying through mud and rain — don’t I- 
know what it is with Mr. Williams! And then, fancy being called 
in to attepd a man ! ” 

“Fancy a man being called in to attend me!’' said Polly. “I 
never have been ill since I was quite a little child, but I think if I 
were — I don’t mean any disrespect to Mr. Williams— I should think 
the doctor worse than the disease. It’s horrid, when one thinks of 
it. Nothing ImUuse could make women endure it. Still, if I were 
.a doctor, or doctress, I should only lay myself out for women and 
children ; but, if I were called out to a male patient on any emerg 
cncy, I don’t see why I shouldn’t go — it would be much pleasanter 
work than nursing him ; and as to being called up in the night, why 
women are subject to that as it is — Mandie seemed always to be 
rousing her nurses out of their beauty sleep. Poor old incapables ! 

I always used to give them some strong tea when they came, to make 
them fit for their work. Fit for it 1 I don’t believe they ever were 
that,” said Polly, with a little contemptuous shrug. “ It’s my firm 
belief, from what I saw of Mandie’s old ladies, that we shall never 
have good nurses till we’ve lady doctors to look after them.” 

“ If Mr. Williams heard you, Polly,” said Mr. Williams’s wife, 

“ I don’t know what he would say. But I don’t know why we 
began talking about doctors and nurses when I wanted to speak to 
you about Mr. Tomlyn. Polly, you can’t, you really be in 
earnest in refusing him. You’ll never have such another chance. 

I don’t know a girl who wouldn’t be ready to jump out of her skin 
with delight in having him. And you know, dear, governessing 
isn’t mUch,— not unless one has all the accomplishments and has 
passed the examinations; and, much as I shall miss you, I feel that 
you could do so much better for yourself if you were to take Mr. 
Tomlyn.” 

“ I don’t like him,” said Polly. 

“But that will come, my dear. You’ll like him well enough in 
time — unless, indeed, you like somebody else,” said Mrs. Williams, 
glancing with a little suspicion at the girl. She was not quite sure, 
little as love-making had been in Polly’s way, but that one or other 
of her late father’s assistants, or some one else, might have touched 
her heart. 

“No, there’s nobody else,” said Polly; and Mrs. Williams felt as 
if she must believe her. “ I suppose it sounds funny to you, but, 
though I’m nearly twenty-two, I never saw anybody I could like — 
in that way. There’s nobody else I care for, but that’s no reason I 
should care for Mr. Tomlyn.” ’ | 

“ Then if there is nobody else, what have you to object to in | 
him?” asked Mrs. Williams, looking as if she thought Polly the J 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


56 

most unreasonable girl in the world, He’s good-looking, quite 
good-looking enough, that is; handsome men never make good hus- 
bands, — and he has money, and is disposed to behave very liberally 
by you, Polly; and you know, situated as you are, you never can 
expect such another chance.” 

I didn’t expect this one,” cried Polly; ‘‘ and I’m sure I wish I 
hadn’t had it. But I don’t like Mr. Tomlyn, and though I don’t 
see the necessity of marriage, for I think a woman can get along 
very well by herself, still I think if a girl does marry, she ought to be 
sure that she loves with all her heart, and all her soul, and all her 
strength, the man she marries, just as the Catechism says she should 
love her God.” 

Polly!” cried Mrs. Williams, looking a little shocked, and hav- 
ing an idea that Polly was rather profane in quoting the Catechism. 

‘‘Well, now I couldn’t love Mr. Tomlyn like that, could I?” 
asked Polly, heedless of the interruption; “ and he wouldn’t under- 
stand it if I did. It would rather bore him, and we shouldn’t get 
on together. He doesn’t want a wife any more than the Grand 
Turk ! It’s a well-dressed piece of goods he is looking out for to 
complete the furniture of his fine house when he gets it — a 
showy sort of a slave. Not a servant; servants can give warning, 
and change their places when they are tired of them. Oh ! the way 
I’ve heard that man speak of women! it’s made my blood boil! 

‘ Women should know their place and keep it!’ ‘ What is a wife 
made for but to study her husband!’ Ten to one but he’ll marry a 
woman who’ll make him do just as she pleases, and he’ll think he’s 
got his foot on her neck all the time. Ugh ! he shall never think 
for a moment he’s got it on mine.” 

“ I daresay he’ll want managing,” said Mrs. Williams; “a great 
many men do. But a wife that knew how to manage him might 
be very happy.” 

“ I couldn’t,” said Polly. “ I don’t want to marry; I never think 
about it ; it doesn’t, teeem in my way. But if ever I do, I shall not 
only want to be able to respect and love and honor my husband 
with all my heart, but 1 shall expect him to respect and honor and 
love me. Now, what does Mr. Tomlyn know of respect and honor 
as applied to women? He could give neither, even to his wife.” 

“I’m afraid you’re sadly romantic, Polly,” said Mrs. Williams,. / 
shaking her head. 

“Mandie always said I was so strong-minded and sensible. , 
Never mind, one’s none the worse for a little romance, if God puts^ 
it in us, than one is for the flowers that He sends. Potatoes and 
carrots are good, but I like roses as well.” 

- “ You may live to want potatoes,” said Mrs, Williams, with a 
faint, wintry smile. “ Oh, Polly! to think of what you are throw- 
ing away!” 

“I never was afraid of work,” said Polly : “ and when I go away 
from here some other door will open to me. I seem to be gathering 
up my strength while I’m waiting here, ready for another fight with 
the world when you don’t want me any more, or I see a chance of 
making a little more money than you can afiord to give. But I’m 
very happy as I am, and in no hurry to go; and I certainly won’t 
go away to be Mrs. Tomyln.” 


SOME OE OUE GIRLS. 


57 


Mrs. Williams felt herself worsted, and said no more; but went 
downstairs presently, with the conviction that she had done her 
duty and failed, and that Mr. Tomyln could require no more of her, 
and at the same time with a pleased consciousness that Polly Brooke 
was not going to leave her just yet. 

“For I ihould never get another like her,” she said. “ No, not 
for twice the money, if I could afford to give it.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

A TANGLED SKEIN . 

Goedon Tynsdell sat alone in his back parlor. He had just 
dnished his fifth cup of tea, and eaten a black and greasy mutton- 
<5hop, which Mrs. Sims had deigned to cook for him at five o’clock, 
in consideration of his having had no dinner; having, for once, 
been too busy to find time to eat one. He had rung the bell, and 
was waiting, with exemplary patience, till Mrs. Sims should conde- 
scend to answer it and clear the tea-things away; and she was sit- 
ting by the kitchen fire — a much better one than her master, at the 
present price of coal, ever thought he could afford for himself — 
toasting her slipshod feet, eating hot buttered toast, such as she 
would never have made for her master, having a regard for hS' 
pocket, as she told him' a dozen times a week, and drinking tea of 
a strength she never allowed him. She heard the bell, and, shifting 
her feet, said, — “Let him wait. Once use folks to bein’ answered 
directly they takes it into their heads they wants you, an’ they 
always looks for it.” 

She poured herself out another cup of tea, — her so-called master 
upstairs would have thought himself fortunate if his had been half 
so good, — and was just reaching out her band for another piece of 
toast, when a ring, sharp, loud, and imperative, summoned her to 
her feet and to the door. She always answered that bell quickly. 
If her master’s patients, or those who came on their behalf, were 
kept waiting, it might be ar bad thing for him, and, consequently, 
for her. “ That ought to be a broken leg, or a confinement come 
on sudden,” she said to herself. “ Well, he’s finished his tea, and 
hadn’t ought to complain, even if he is kept out If^te. I hope he’ll 
come up quietly, though, if he is; I hate to be woke out o’ my first 
sleep by any one a creakin’ an’ a tumblin’ up the stairs, just as if 
there was nobody in the house but theirselves. But men has no 
consideration, ever, though this one isn’t as bad as some I’ve known 
on.” 

By this time she had reached the door, and, opening it, the gas- 
light fell on a tall, slight figure, and a young, handsome, but worn 
face. The night was a miserable one— rain, and snow, and sleet 
around, and mud, horrid, slimy, greasy, London mud, an inch deep, 
on the ground. Perhaps the stranger was anxious to find shelter 
from it, for, after asking impatiently if Mr. Tynsdell were within, 
he hurried into the house almost before the ancient serving- woman 
had time to answer in the affirmative, and, pushing his way past 
her, seemed to find his way by some instinct to the back parlor— 


58 


SOME OF OUR OIRLS- 


for she was certain he had never been in the house before— and 
closed the door almost in her face. 

“ That’s manners,” said Mrs. Sims, indignantly. '' One of his 
relations, I shouldn’t wonder. There’s something of the same cut 
about him. Well, I’d have finished my tea before I’d have gone to 
the door to have let him in, if I’d only known ; an’ if he wants fresh 
tea, he’ll have to wait for it,” she added, with a little spite. 

‘‘ There’s not a drop of bilin’ water in the kettle.” 

Meanwhile, the gentleman who had been shown, or rather who 
had shown himself, into the back parlor, had removed his hat from 
his eyes, and, wiping the rain-drops from his forehead, stood, look- 
ing at the occupant of the chair by the fire-side. Gordon Tynsdell 
sprang to his feet. My dear fellow! what on earth brings you 
here such a night as this? It’s bad enough for poor devils who, 
like myself, are too glad of work to mind what weather it is they’ve 
the chance of doing it in, but you — ” 

“I wanted to see you, and I couldn’t stand about the weather, 
and it didn’t rain, and if it had I should have come all the*same,”^^ 
said the other, in a dull, weary monotone — a voice that, coming 
from so young a man, sounded as if it was the dirge of hope, and 
energy, and early promise. What should I care about the weather 
for? As if it mattered to a living soul whether I caught my death 
of cold, as the old women say, or not.” 

“You’re not going to catch it now, if I can help it,”, said the 
other, in a tone he might have used to a patient slightly refractory. 

“ Take off your wet>coat; and will you have some tea? — or perhaps 
it had better be brandy-and-water?” 

“ Yes, give me some brandy: it’s a long walk here from the sta- 
tion. I didn’t think it was so far, and I’d some trouble in finding 
my way. What on earth makes you live in such an out-of-the-way 
part of the world?” 

“ Because I thought I should find something to ,do in it, but I 
don’t think I proved myself a wise man when I came" to the east, for 
the work is little, and the pay is less.’’ He rang the bell, but Mrs. 
Sims knew what was due to herself too well to answer, and pro- 
ceeded with the buttering of yet another round of toast, when she 
was astounded by the sight of her master in the kitchen. 

“ Deaf, eh, Mrs. Sims? 1 thought I rang pretty loudly, too. Got 
any boiling water? Ho? Where’s the kettle?' We’ll soon have 
some. That’s capital toast — go on with the buttering;” and he pro- 
ceeded to half fill the kettle — a small iron one — himself, and placed 
it on the fire. Then he looked about for a tumbler, and put it on 
the tray. “How, take the kettle upstairs. ’Tisn’t a first-rate fire, 
but I’ve some one there I don’t like to leave; and clear away the 
tea-things. I’ll follow with the tray.” 

He did so: but the tray bore Mrs. Sims’s round of well-buttered 
toast, which he placed on the hob to keep hot while the kettle was 
boiling. The old woman cleared away with a sulky, aggrieved air, ' 
of which her master took not the slightest notice ; and as soon as 
she®had made her exit, which she was a perversely long time in do- 
ing, and he had made his guest some hot brandy-and-water, and 
prevailed on him to take a piece of toast with it, he said, — “ When: 


SOME -OF OUR GIRLS. 59 

you have' taken that, perhaps you will tell me how things are going 
on with you.” 

This was spoken in the tone of one who did not expect to hear 
that ‘Uhing* were going” well with the man he addressed, but who 
felt a great interest and pity in him. Now they were by the fire, 
the likeness between these two — both sons of one father — manifested 
itself more closely than when they were apart. There was the same 
broad, open forehead, the hair and eyes were of the same color, and 
the complexion had the same tone, only in one it was bronzed by a 
greater exposure to the weather than the other had ever known. 
But the unlikeness showed itself too. Gordon Tynsdell’s eyes had 
a clear, fearless outlook, the good-tempered lips were firm and reso- 
lute as well as good-tempered; but in Horace Gordon’s face there 
was, all through, a weakness — a timidity — not physical, that spoiled 
the whole, and but for which he. would have been a much hand- 
somer man than his brother. 

“ Things have been going as my worst enemy could wish them. 
I think I’m punished enough, Gordon,” he said. 

The look of pity on the other’s face deepened. ' There was in his 
manner something of the regard which a much older brother might 
show to one younger and weaker. It was not merely pity, but 
affection — an affection which w’as almost strange, considering their 
relative positions, and the fact that some sons might have been dis- 
posed to show the more favored one the resentment called forth by 
the injuries sustained at the hands of their common father. “ Pun- 
ishment!” The poor weakling before him— whom everybody liked; 
who was always so popular because of the very pleasantness and 
facile temper that had led to his ruin — would have enough of that 
to bear without a wond from him. 

“ Have you seen your mother yet?” he asked. 

“ No; she doesn’t care to see me, and I have no wish to force my 
presence on her; but I fiam seen Millicent Pembury again;” 

“Well?” 

“And I thought I should find myself forgiven at last. She 
seemed near relenting. Gordon, it was my one chance! If she 
would but have been my wife, I should be another man. But she 
is as good as my mother, and as pitiless! I had almost won her 
over, — a little mfre and I think she would have been my own 
again, — and then we were interrupted; some girl came into the 
room, and she kept near her. I suppose even then she was think- 
ing better — or worse — of it; but she promised to write, and she 
did write; and look, this is all the saint can say to the sinner!” 

He. gave Gordon Tynsdell a note, in which Millicent Pembury 
had written a few words of farewell— a farewell, she told him, that 
must be a final one. It' was coldly, almost stiffly worded. The un- 
happy gifl, while lyriting it, had been afraid to say too much, lest 
she should betray how much the writing cost her. If Horace Gor- 
don could have read it rightly, he would have seen how much the 
very stiffnesa and formality, coming from such a girl as Millicent, 

• conveyed. But, though he knew Millicent, he did not understand 
her as did Gordon Tynsdell, who did not know her at all. 

“ She’s going back to the Hall, you see, where she thinks she will 
he safe from me; and she wishes me well, and there’s an end — an 


60 


SOME OF OUR i^IRLS. 


end of everything, so far as I am concerned. For her— she will 
marry that fellow Milburne most likeh% and be a model wife and 
mother; while, for aught she cares, I may go to the devil!’’ 

“ Hadn’t you turned your face in that direction before Miss Pem- 
bury broke with you?” asked Gordon Tynsdell. “ I’m not going 
to preach, my dear fellow ; but how you could expect a girl to look 
over such an offense as yours, beats me. And it does seem to me, 
that all through, you forget that other, who, let her have wronged 
Mr. Towers as she may, has some claim on you.” 

‘M suppose you think,” said Horace, moodily, ‘'that I ought to 
marry her? I believe my mother is of the same opinion. Lord 
help us both! We shall be a happy couple if I dol” 

“ I don’t see anything else for it,” said Gordon, gravely. “You 
can’t send her to her ruin.” 

“ Poor creature, no! I can never come back to England in that 
case,” he said, looking up at his brother. “ Not to Hertfordshire, 
at any rate. I couldn’t ask my mother to leave the place to make 
way for Adela. If Milly had gone there, I daresay she would never 
have left it. I should never like to meet the people about there. 
They were none too fond of my father, and they would say I am 
his worthy son.” 

He leaned back with folded arms, looking moodily in the fire, as 
if trying to read there his future story. And Gordon Tynsdell 
looked on him, pityingly, and almost hopelessly. He had set his 
w^hole life wrong, and how was it to be righted? By nothing but 
by hurling the wretched creature who had sinned with him yet 
deeper and deeper into destruction. That was the one chance for 
him; and Gordon felt that if he were base enough and coward 
enough to take it, he should despise him for ever. 

“ What are your plans for the present?’ h5 said, almost because 
he hardly knew what else to say. 

“ I don’t know. 8he is staying in Paris still. I suppose I must 
go back to her soon. There is nothing for me to do here ; and I 
suppose, too, that when we are married we must go knocking 
about the' Continent, leading the life that other disreputables lead. 
We shall be always on the shady side of the wall now. I wonder 
how it will feel to be in the shade — to have people look coldly, or 
not look at all, or be just civil to you, and make up for it by cut- 
ting your wife. Poor Adela! It will be hard 8n her, any way,” 
he said, with a little relenting in his face. “ We shall both go 
down, lower and lower. Curious feeling it must be to go sinking 
into the pit, and feel the mud rising to your very throat. And I 
suppose by-and-by the mud won’t seem mud — we shall get so used 
to it; and the unclean creatures with whom we shall have to mix: 
won’t seem so unclean when we have become like them. Steadily 
downwards! That’s what lies before one. Adela and J have' ta 
sink, sink, till we are out of sight of all you gocfd respectables, and 
are on a comfortable level with the rest of the muriens who make 
the best of their lost lives by herding together. Poor girl! That’s 
what she and I have got to come to ! ” 

“I’d be hanged if I would!” cried Gordon Tynsdell, starting up 
with such energy, that the poker and tongs, stationed on either side 
of the fireplace, fell down with a clatter that made Mrs. Sims, in the 


SOME OE OUR GIKLS. 61 

kitchen beneath, arrive at the conclusion that the young men had 
quarreled. ’ . 

“Just what might be expected. Cornin’ out on such a night, 
a-traspesin’ over the place with his muddy boots, an’ me havin’ my 
toast carried otff before my very eyes.” 

She drank her tea with redoubled relish as she thought of the 
quarrel she imagined up-stairs, but certainly there was nothing fur- 
ther from Gordon Tynsdell’s mind than quarreling, at that 
moment. 

“I wouldn’t do it,” he repeated. “ Look here, Horace, you’re in 
a devil of a mess, there’s no doubt of it. Turn it which way you 
will, you’re about in as awkward a scrape as a fellow can w^ell be in. 
But I wouldn’t sink to the society of scoundrels, or let my wife mix 
with demi-reps. Poor thing! you’ve dragged her low enough with- 
out that. If I’d got a patient with an arm w^asted up to the elbow, 
do you think I’d tell him to lie down and die while he’d got two 
sound legs to stand on, and another arm to work with? You’ve 
gone wrong, and you’ve done wrong, awfully wrong, but you’re not 
to be wrong altogether, to the end of your days. Pluck up a 
heart, man, for your own sake and that of the ■♦poor creature who 
will have to bear the brunt a great deal more than you will.' Don’t 
go mixing with the scum and riffraff that’s always floating about on 
the Continent, by way of society. Better go without society at all. 
You’ve got each other, and for God’s sake try and makf the best, 
not the worst, of each other. By and by come back to England, to 
Hertfordshire, even ; it’s your place, and do your duty in it as far 
as circumstances allow. You can’t make life what it would have 
been if this had not occurred, but it needn’t be an utter wreck either 
for you or for the woman you must make your wife.” 

“If r were like you, Gordon,” said the other, hopelessly, “I 
might do as you say — but then, if I had been like you I should never 
have made such a mess of my life as I have done. We ought to 
have changed places. It’s a pity for my mother’s sake wm can’t — 
poor Adela! poor girl! it is hard on her— but even making her my 
wife won’t set things straight, you see,” he added, as if with a fur- 
tive hope that his brother might take another view of the case. 

“ But you must set them straight for her as far as you can,” said 
the other, almost sternly. “If you have wronged one woman, is 
that any reason why you should wrong another, and one ten times 
more to be pitied? There ! sit down like a good fellow,” for Horace 
had risen with a movement of anger; “let’s talk the thing over 
quietly. When we’ve done our best to set things straight, we shall 
have but a tangled coil after all.” 

A coil that nothing ever would set right again. Over in Paris, 
Adela Towers was wearing her heart aw^ay, wondering when the 
man, for whom she had risked and lost all, would return. Her 
beauty was fa^t going, and she was only seven-and tw^enty. Her 
cheeks were haggard, her eyes unnaturail}^ bright, and if her beauty 
went, how should she keep him?— and she had nothing else but 
him. 

He had taken good rooms for her in one of the quietest hotels he 
could find: and the people were attentive, and she had a carriage at 
her command. Everything that money could do for her, Horace 


62 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


Oordon was ready enough to do. But she could not hide from her- 
self that his lore was fading fast. She had not yet learned that his 
love had never really been hers at all. He had been a month away, 
and had only written twice — coldly, almost formally — and he had 
not answered the last passionate letter she had sent him, in which 
she urged him to come back at once, and save her from the loneli- 
ness that was so maddening. 

It was now just two days since Horace’s visit to his brother; the 
€arly winter night was closing in ; Adela had driven out — a stranger, 
as it seemed to her, amongst a crowd of strangers ; and then she 
had sat at her window watching the people as they went past, 
gaily dressed women with their children, busy men, idle loungers 
— all the stir of a life from which she now seemed as much shut out 
as if she were in her grave. As the night fell in, a horrible sense 
of desolation came over her — that intense, intolerable depression 
which sometimes drives women to drink, sometimes to suicide. She 
had left all for Horace, and Horace seemed to have left her. If he 
did not come back — if he deserted her as she had deserted her hus- 
band! What was .there to bind him to her? Love — it had gone 
by. Honor — the very word between those two seemed a mockery. 
What would become of her if he never came back? What did 
women do who fell as she had fallen? After — after — she shuddered 
at that “ after” as if a grave had opened at her feet, and shown her 
its ghastly tenants — after betrayal as she had betrayed? Did they 
sink to such infamy as she had heard of, and sometimes, from her 
carriage windows, seen flaunting in the gas-lit streets? Or did 
they kill themselves at once, because life had become too horrible? 
Oh! but she could not die — what was there beyond the grave? She 
had become a sinner. 

All the threatenings which had once seemed to go by her as things 
with which she, and such as she, had nothing to do — mere mean- 
ingless words which passed idly over her head — now seemed living, 
terrible realties. Such a little while back, and, if her life had not 
been linked to good, it had at least been free from harm; and now 
she was as one of the outcasts of the earth — one to whom her own 
mother would send no word or sign, whose sisters would suffer 
tlirough the shame of her misdoings. Of all in this great city, 
whose life was surging all around her, she seemed the most 
wretched and most utterly alone. 

Would Horace make her his wife? That would not set things 
right. That would not make her as she had been before. She 
knew well that, for such as she there was no complete rehabilita- 
tion. But still, compared to what she should be if he did not marry 
her, she should be saved. She dared not think of how it would be 
with her if he did not. 

There w^as a quick step in the corridor outside, and the door was 
opened. Horace came in, looking paler and more worn than when 
he had gone away — like a man who had seen the worst, and made 
up his mind to bear it. He bent over her, and ^kissed her— a cold, 
formal, duty kiss, that seemed to freeze the cheek it fell on. Then 
he sat down, and asked her how she had been during his absence. 
There was a forced kindness about him from which she augured 
the worst. There was no solicitude — much less love — in his ques- 


SOMiE OF OUR GIRLS. 


63 


lions. Had he come to tell her that all was over between them — 
that he was tired of her, and it would be best to part? She sat 
with burning lips and a choking in her throat, and he went on, 
with his eyes bent on the ground. 

“Our case is coming on soon; it is likely to be heard before 
Christmas? We have no defense to make, and 1 shall put in none. 
The Court will be sure to give Tower the divorce he wants, and as 
soon as that is so,- we must marry.” 

He said the words as if he had learned them by rote, and com- 
pelled himself to say them. She knew that it was by an effort he 
uttered them, that while telling her he must make her his wife he 
had not one particle of love for her. It was only pity and a sense 
of justice. And on her side, too, she felt that . love had failed. 
She was not a woman to go on giving and have nothing back. 
They must live together all their days, and all affection was at an 
end, and they knew too much of each other ever to hope it would 
be born again. Her only hope in this world was to be linked to 
this man, and yet if she could have redeemed herself in any other 
way, how gladly would she have consented never to see him more. 
Like Francesca and her lover, these two had destroyed each other, 
and had to bear their punishment together; but Dante might have 
added a sharper pain to his unhappy lovers — have increased their 
sufferings a hundredfold, if like these two, he had made them 
lovers no more. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

AMANDA. 

“ Mandie,” Mrs. Brooke, or Amanda, Polly's step-mamma, was 
just as helpless and as inefficient as women with sentimental names, 
savouring of the novels of the last century, generally are. Who 
would ever expect any good, useful work to be performed by aiSelina 
or an Albina? Whether the name forms the character, or is-given 
by an inspiration, it is impossible to say; but the witless, shif%ss 
women, doomed to drag down the luckless men they marry, and 
by some unhappy fate, unhappy, at least, for men, are sure to he 
married ; the soft, pithless, sapless parasites of feminine humanity 
are almost certain to have- such names as Strephon might have 
woven into his verses if Chloe had been cruel to him, or Damon 
hav4 piped about to his sheep if Phillis had turned a deaf ear to 
his warblings. 

“ Mandie,” or Mrs. Brooke, was as pretty as a wax-doll in a shop- 
window. She had pink cheeks, that never got vulgarly red or 
flushed; and blue eyes — the pale, passionless blue of -the old-fash- 
ioned willow-pattern plates — she had fair hair, and a well-formed 
figure a little under the middle height, and with a slight, a very 
slight, tendency to embonpoint. She had married Mr. Brooke when 
she was seventeen, and she never forgot what a very youthful bride 
she had been, and never suffered any one else to forget it. She was 
a girl then — “ a mere child," as she was in the habit of speaking of 
herself, and, to all practical intents and purposes, a mere child she 
was likely to remain to the end of her days. 


64 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


Mr. JBrooke had been five-and-twenty years older than his wife; 
and Polly, her step-daughter, was just three years younger than her 
new mamma when she came home. Polly would much rather her 
father had not married; ‘‘we were getting on so nicely together,” 
she said. Polly had pronounced herself fit to leave scho9l when she 
was thirteen, and, since then, had been her father’s companion and 
adviser-in-chief. It was when he was away from home on a short 
holiday that he had seen Amanda, fallen in love, and proposed at 
the end of a fortnight. He was not Amanda’s first love by any 
means. She had had a succession of sweethearts ever since she was 
five years old — women of her stamp are wonderfully precocious in 
some things, if they never attain maturity in others — but Mr, 
Brooke was the first who had made her an offer, and she was very 
proud of being married before the other girls of her acquaintance; 
and, her home being a dull farm-house in one of the midland coun- 
tries, she was very glad to exchange it for Mr. Brooke’s house in 
London, 

Mr. Brooke was a chemist, and he lived in one of the dingy 
streets that turn off from Tottenham Court Road and Oxford 
Street. He was not a successful man, being too much given to the 
theoretical part of his business. In the mediaeval ages he would 
certainly have been an alchemist, or died in the belief that he was 
just on the point of discovering the elixir of life. As it was, he was 
for ever about to find some new dye, which should eclipse every 
other color in brilliancy, and be the fashion in every European 
capital ; or he was just going to find some new deodorizer, which 
would make a dung-heap into a bouquet, and an open sewer more 
fragrant than a garden of roses. 

But nothing came of his discoveries. The dyes were lovely when 
inclosed in a well-stoppered glass bottle, but as soon as they were 
applied to any fabric they evaporated, afid left not a tinge behind. 
The ^odorizers were worse ; they evaporated too, but not without 
leaviOT a perfume to which that of the nuisances they were sup- 
posed to counteract was as attar of roses. And, while Mr. Brooke 
was making these experiments, he was neglecting his business, 
letting drugs that were in daily requisition run out before he ordered 
more, forgetting to make up prescriptions that were required 
immediately, and suffering the whole shop to assume an air of 
neglect and untidiness. 

When Polly came home from school things- were a little better. 
She saw that the errand boy kept the windows bright, and swept 
the shop out daily; and she got up early of a morning to dust and 
arrange the shelves. She looked after the prescriptions too, and 
reminded her father to make them up in due time ; and she made _ 
herself acquainted with the names of the drugs in the different 
drawers and jars, and saw that these were duly replenished. Alto- 
gether, Mr. Brooke would have done very well if he had only been 
content with his daughter, who was as practical and helpful as, by 
some blessed compensation of Providence, the wives and daughters 
of dreamers so often are: but, unhappily for himself, he saw 
Amanda, and, as Polly said, “Not having me with him, he 
must needs get into mischief and marry her.” 

Polly made the best of her step-mother, just as she made the best of 


65 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 

everything. She gave her up the keys very dutifully, but as Amanda 
was always leaving them about, and one servant stole the brandy 
and got tipsy therewith, and the next pawned six of Mr. Brooke’s 
new shirts, Polly took possession of the keys again, and Amanda 
acquiesced in her doing so. As to the house-keeping money, 
Amanda linding it impossible to make it suffice, Polly took the 
management of that also, so that she became again, just as she had 
been before her step-mamma came home, the virtual head of the • 
household; only, as Amanda was tiresome and troublesome and 
difficult to please, and had sometimes IHtle fits of dignity and tetchi- 
ness, the w^ork was rather harder than it had been before. 

Then the babies came. Amanda w^as as delighted with the first a 
a child with her new doll, and took about as much care of it. The 
baby died, as might have been expected, and the next had the same 
fate. Amanda cried a little, but not too much, for fear of discolor- 
ing her complexion and making her eyes red. iVlien the third baby 
came, Polly took charge of it just as she had done of the keys and 
the housekeeping money; and did the like when the fourth made 
its appearance, though by this time her cares had increased through 
Mr. Brooke’s being a confirmed invalid. 

Amanda did nothing but look pretty, unless a little crochet or ^ 
tatting might be called work. She had married at seventeen, and 
«he seemed determined to remain seventeen for ever. She was 
alwa}’^ bewailing her girlishness and her youth, as if they were 
both incurable complaints. The possibility of growing out of either 
never seemed to occur to her. Then Mr. Brooke died, and the - 
3"Oung wife looked even younger as a widow, and her girlishness 
became still more obtrusive. She went home, taking the babies 
with her. Polly wound up her father’s affairs, and found, when 
everything had been paid off, there was nothing left. Amanda 
cried a liUle when she heard this, but not very much. She had 
nlw^ays found somebody ready to take care of her, because she was 
too helpless to take care of herself, and she had no doubt that she 
should do, so now. 

Fortunately, her mother and her two sisters were fond of chil- 
dren. The latter were, both, older than Amanda, and she had been 
in the habit of saying little, pointless sarcasms at them as old maids 
— creatures wdio had failed to fulfill the destiny marked out for 
them by Providence. She \gave the children up to them as a mat- 
ter of course, and contented herself with being as ornamental and as 
useless in her father’s house as she had been in her husband’s; 
while Polly gladly accepted the situation which Mrs. Williams 
offered her as nursery governess, till, as that lady said, something 
better should turn up. 

“You may leave me when it does. Miss Brooke, and I shall not 
blame you. I can’t afford to give a high salary; still, it is a safe ^ 
home, and it is not quite like going amongst strangers, as Mr. Will- 
iams knew your poor papa so long.” 

“ Miss Brooke” soon became “ Polly,” and Mrs. Williams began 
to wonder how she should do without her if the something better _ 
did “ turn up.” And now that Amanda was provided for, and the 
babies likely to be taken care of, Polly, when the first grief at the 
loss of her father had subsided, began to feel more at rest than 
8 


66 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


she had done for years. There was no rent to meet; no assistance;- 
salary to provide for; no housekeeping expenses to be checked. 
She was at rest for a time, though many people would have thought 
the entire children, and a never-ending amount of needlework, a 
very fair amount of labor. 

A short time before the memorable morning when the ‘‘baby^*' 
had been brought comatose to Mr. Williams’s, and given the four 
girls residing under his roof a common object of interest, an event 
had occurred which promised to make a greater difference in Mrs. 
Brooke’s life than even the “ baby” had done to Madge or Susan. 
This was a visit from her maternal uncle to her father’s farm at 
Highleigh. Mr. Sampson had never seen his sister since her mar- 
riage. They had, both of them, always been too busy for the ex- 
change of visits. Mrs. Long had her dairy, her fowls, and her 
children ; and the expense of a visit to town would have been more 
than she would have liked; and Mr. Sampson had his business, 
from which, till he married, he rarely absented himself for a single 
day. 

When he married, his wife took him with her every autumn to 
Margate or Brighton; and then, as times went on, and their cir- 
cumstances improved, he had to do as others did in his position,, 
and visit Paris or go up the Rhine, *w^hen he would much rather 
have been in his counting-house. Still, he always gave way to his 
wife in trifles ; and there was a slight amount of ostentation in his 
character which made these Continental visits not unpleasant, much 
as he disliked the tahle-d'Jiote and the foreign mode of living alto- 
gether. They showed that he could afford to spend as much money 
as did others, upon his pleasure-seeking; like the diamond studs he 
wore in his frilled shirt-front on gala occasions, or the pictures he 
hung on his walls, they were manifestations of the wealth which it 
had been the business of his existence to acquire. 

' For thirty vears of his married life Mr. Sampson had lived in one 
house, a solid!, red brick mansion, with a court-yard in front, and a 
jarge garden behind, at Hackney. The house came to him from his- 
wife’s father, and, in Mr. Sampson’s opinion, there was notits equal 
in the kingdom. It was well and solidly built; some rich City 
merchant, in the beginning of the last century, had erected it and 
retired there, delighting in it as a place not too far from his familiar 
haunts and his old friends, while yet pleasantly near to green fields 
and rural sights. Hackney had been in the country then, and 
wealthy City men had built themselves one good house after an- 
other in it and its environs; and to Mr. Sampson it was still as rural 
and as pleasant as when he first came to reside there thirty years 
ago. 

Some of his friends had gone to Stamford Hill; others had 
stretched their wings, and flown ten or twelve miles off, for the 
sake of having a “place” in the country; but Mr. Sampson still 
adhered to the old-fashioned suburb, and the old-fashioned house 
in iL There was no need, he said, to tire himself with a railway 
journey as he went to and from his place of business; his phaeton, 
drawn by a stout, gray cob, carried him there and back in all 
weathers. If it rained, he pulled the hood forward, and the leathern 
apron well up; if it was fine, he could enjoj^ the ride at his leisure. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 67 

But, hail or rain, snow or sunshine, to and from Mincing Lane he 
went in his phaeton, with ten times the security and comfort that 
he would have known if home at the rate of forty miles an hour 
behind a steam-engine, 

• He was old-fashioned in many of his ways — a citizen of a bygone 
type. He believed in the Lord Mayor as the greatest of earthly 
dignitaries. He had never tried for the honor himself, because he 
doubted his fitness to fill it properly, and, perhaps, too, shrunk 
from the expenditure it might call forth. If ostentatious, and anx- 
ious to vie with his fellow citizens in some things, there was a 
homely, shrewd sturdiness in the man which prevented his ever 
vying with those of a higher class than his own. He had no wish 
for fashion; and although, long since, he could have afforded a 
house in Tyburnia, and as fashionable an equipage as is ever seen 
in the Parks, he eschewed all such vanities as unbecoming his sta- 
tion. There might be something of the “ pride that apes humility ’’ 
in this, and something, too, of a love of ease. It was less trouble to 
laugh at the follies of fashion than to conform to its edicts; and 
life, if more homely, was, perhaps, more comfortable at the East 
than at the West; while the journey to the City from Bays water or 
Kensington would have been decidedly more than the old gniy cob 
could accomplish. 

His wife had suited him admirably. Their tastes and feelings had 
harmonized in most things. They both liked the table, and she was 
an excellent cook, and trained her servants in her own wa5^s. They 
bad no children, but they never wanted any, and life flowed on in a 
very pleasant routine of money-making and dinner-eating, varied 
by those* trips to the sea-side or the Continent of which I have 
spoken, till Mrs. Sampson was suddenly carried away from her hus- 
band by a fit of apoplexy— the only time, in all their long acquaint- 
ance that she had ever seriously vexed him. 

He was inconsolable for a little time. He lost his appetite, and 
made mistakes in his books. He was thrown out of his grooves al- 
together by this event; it was sometbing wholly unforeseen and un- 
looked-for. In his scheme of life death had never found a place; 
and now Death had come and taken away, not only his wife but hik 
housekeeper. He felt very lonely when he came home. His wife 
and he had never had much to talk about. He was not a man to 
take a woman into his confidence in any matter of business, still 
less to talk to her of the news of the day or the things about which 
he would converse with his fellow-men ; but he had liked to see her 
sitting opposite to him at the dinner-table or the fireplace. His 
house did not seem .tlie same now she was no longer there. It 
looked empty and unfurnished, and yet he could not bear to leave 
it.^ He could not relish his meals when they were eaten alone; he 
missed the rustle of his wife’s dress, the murmuring sound of’ her 
voice. “ A house without a mistress in it,” he said, "in the despera- 
tion of his loneliness, “ is worse than no house at all.” 

Then he remembered his sister and her d-aughters. Why should not 
one of the latter come and keep his house for him? They must be 
quite old enough by this time; he had not a clear idea of their 
ages, but they must be women grown: indeed, one of theimhad 
married some years since, and he had sent her a gold watch and 


68 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


chain at the time. She was a widow now, poor thing; his own be- 
reavement made him feel for her; she might be glad of a home, or^ 
if she could not leave her children — he could not be troubled with 
children — he might have one of her sisters to live with him. 

But he meant to say nothing of these his intentions until he had 
seen the girls; therefore he simply wrote to his sister inviting him- 
self to pay her a visit, and went down, as soon as he had heard from 
her that there was the warmest of welcomes waiting him at High- 
leigh, taking with him a turbot, a barrel of oysters, and four black- 
silk dresses, of a quality which made even Mrs. Long, who cared as 
little for the pomps and vanities as any woman living, exult in their 
richness when she saw herself and her daughters attired in them. 

Mr. Sampson meant to choose the best of the three girls, and he 
watched them narrowly in accordance with this resolve. Amanda, 
knew what he had come for, and resolved that he should choose 
her. As to leaving the babies, Patty and Peggy could mind them. 
What were old maids good for but to take charge of the children of 
their married sisters? And the little ones would be a great deal 
better in the country than in town. 

Amanda was no fool — intellectually. She had been stupid at 
school, and her mother had pronounced her hopelessly stupid in 
household matters. But there are fools and fools — clever fools,, 
who make such magnificent blunders that you might sometimes take 
them for geniuses; good-natured fools, who are always committing^ 
one mistake or another, very often to the cost of others besides 
themselves; selfish fools, who live for nothing but themselves; and 
cunning fools, who sometimes succeed where cleverer people would 
fail. Amanda was both cunning and selfish; she had decided on 
returning to town with Uncle Sampson, and she worked stead- 
fastly, with all the powers of her small wits, to achieve that end. She 
adopted a plaintive style which suited her prettiness admirably, and 
harmonized just now with Mr. Sampson’s own feelings. She al- 
ways managed to be in the way when the postman brought him his 
Times, so that she might hand it to him herself. She was always 
ready to take a walk with him, when Peggy, perhaps, would be 
minding the children, and Patty busy in the kitchen. She echoed 
his opinions, and looked docility and sweetness to the life. Uncle 
Sampson fell in love with her as much as an uncle can with a niece, 
and then took his sister into his confidence and asked her how, sup- 
posing he took Amanda back to town with him, the children would 
get on. 

“ Peggy will see to them,” said Mrs. l^ong. ‘‘She is as fond of 
them as if they were her own, already.” 

She did not think it fair to tell Uncle Sampson that it was Peggy 
who “saw to them ’’almost entirely, as it was. If there was a 
good chance opening before Amanda, it was not for her mother to 
spoil it. She did, however, think it her duty toward her brother 
to say — 

“If you want a housekeeper, Patty will do very much better 
than Amanda.” 

Buf Patty was loud-voiced, stout, and rather plain. She would 
never lighten up the house as would the little pink and white wo- 
man, with her low voice and her subservient ways. Besides, Patty 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


G9 


had a decisive way of speaking; was apt to express her opinion on 
any matter that came under her notice, no matter whether it was 
within a woman’s province or not. Mr. Sampson thought she 
might rule him as well as his house. He disliked women with a 
will of their own, and Peggy was a confirmed old maid, as Mrs. 
Brooke was in the habit of saying in her pretty, girlish way ; he 
should never like to see any one so precise and stiff in the place of 
his late wife. Besides, Peggy was better where she was, minding 
the pretty creature’s children; and the pretty creature should come 
with him. 

Amanda was delighted to come, but she did not show all her de- 
light. She talked a little about parting with her babies; then said, 
if dear Uncle Sampson thought she should make him happy in his 
bereavement, it was her duty to go. She knew what bereavement 
was herself. Then she cried a little; her tears were always very 
near her eyes — much nearer than they were to her heart. Uncle 
Sampson gave her twenty pounds to spend for the little ones, and 
told her that, though he had no accommodation in his house for 
them, he should never forget the sacrifice she made, and would 
look after them when they grew older. The little ones were very 
shabby. Peggy and Patty had bought their last new shoes out of 
their own pocket money, and their grandmother had gone without 
a new winter bonnet to find them warm underclothing. 

There was always, plenty, and to spare, of a plain kind on the 
table at Highleigh; but money was never too plentiful, so Amanda 
gave five out of the twenty pounds to Peggy to spend for the 
children, and kept the other fifteen for her own requirements. And 
a day or two after, she went aw^ay, with her handkerchief to her 
eyes, and Uncle Sampson carried her off in triumph to London, 
believing that she really had sacrificed her maternal feelings on his 
behalf. How was it possible for a man to think anything else of a 
woman who looked so lovely when she held her children in her 
arms, and cried so becomingly at parting from them? 

“ I doubt your Uncle John’s got a bad bargain,” said Mrs. Long 
to her girls, as the fly drove off to the station with the travelers. 
** Anyway, it was his own doing, and he isn’t married to her, so he 
can send her back when he knows a little more of her.” 

“ She won’t let him know too much,” said Patty. “Amanda’s 
clever enouglj to throw dust in the eyes of a wiser man than Uncle 
John.” 

“And she’s left the children behind her,” said Aunt Peggy, 
kissing first one and then the other; “so she’s welcome to stop 
away as long as she pleases; and she will stop, you’ll see,” she 
added, significantly. “Uncle John isn’t the only man who can’t 
see in this' world.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

folly’s visit to her step-maj^ima. 

When Amanda was comfortably settled in her new abode, and 
had bought herself some suitable dresses in which to receive her 
friends — Mr. Sampson had given her another twenty pounds for her- 


70 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 

self the day after they came to LoDdon — she wrote to Polly, telling' 
her of her change of residence, and asking her to come and see her. 
She wished Polly to see her in her new state, and besides she felt, as 
she said, that she ought to take a little notice of her late husband’s 
daughter; for she had liked Polly as much as it was easy for her to 
Jike anything. Besides, Polly had always been so useful, and there 
was no knowing when she might be of use again. 

Just at that time Polly was looking forward to a change in her 
own arrangements, wdiich would necessitate her leaving London, 
and, therefore, she was very glad to go and see Amanda, as she 
thought she could couple her visit to her with one to “ the baby,’' 
which she had not seen for above a month. 

Madge had never been to see “ baby ” since it had been domiciled 
with Mrs. Smith. She had been conducting herself better lately — a 
few grains of intelligence seemed to have pierced through the dense 
crust of her stolidity. Polly had tried hard to break through it, but 
she had not much time to give to the development of Madge; and 
Susan had left off talking of resigning her situation if Madge re- 
mained. “She did behave like a Christian to the baby,” Susan 
said, “ and one ought to make allowances for her bringing-up.” 
Polly had asked Mrs. Williams to allow Madge to accompany her 
on her visit to the baby ; and accordingly Madge, dressed in her 
best, accompanied her. 

Susan had done her utmost, out of sheer good-nature, to spoil that 
best. The severe simplicity of Madge’s toilet— regulated by the taste 
of the workhouse matron, with such additions as Mrs. Williams 
thouglit proper — did not please her at all. She took a great red 
rose out of her own bonnet, and stuck it in the neat black straw 
Madge wore; and she lent her a new mock ermine muff' and a v<vy 
gay neck-tie. 

‘‘ That’s a little more like,” she said, when she surveyed her; and 
Madge herself looked pleased with her appearance. Polly had been 
too busy up to the last moment to notice it, and then there was no 
time to make alterations, even if she had chosen to hurt the feelings 
of the two girls by doing so. Madge was thoroughly pleased with 
her finery. She sat Tipright in the railway carriage, with her hands 
half in the muff — it was so small she could not get them quite in ; 
and though the rose, which had been fastened in veiy hurriedl}’-, 
kept falling forward and getting into her eyes, and the scarlet neck- 
tie was not half so warm as the little black-and-white plaid which it 
replaced, she would not have parted with her finery on any account. 

“ If I were going to stop in Wurtemburg Street,” thought Polly, 
“I’d see if Mrs. Williams wouldn’t let me smarten that girl’s dress 
up for her. The pomps and vanities of this wicked w^orld will be 
good for something if they teach poor Madge she is a girl and a 
human being. At any rale, I’ll give her a bow for her throat and 
another for her cap before I go.” 

The door of Mr. Sampson’s house was opened by a man-servant 
out of livery, looking thoroughl}- well fed, well paid, and certainly 
not overworked. From the large flagged hall, Polly went up a 
broad staircase, with carved oaken balusters, into a drawing-room 
overlooking the garden at the back of the house. There were ever- 
greens in abundance in the garden, and some fine old trees at the 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


71 


further end, vdiose foliage in summer concealed the tall chimneys 
of the neighboring factories which had sprung up one after another 
, around the he use," since it had been firet built as a pleasant country 
' residence. 

The room was handsomely furnished in the fashion of thirty 
years ago, tliough chairs and couches, and even the carpet, were 
all carefully covered. Mrs. Sampson had been a very frugal 
woman, and 1 ked to have best and second-best things, and this had 
been her state apartment, wdiolly reserved for company and forma! 
calls. She had never used it as her ordinary sitting-room, but 
Amanda did so, and had a fire in it every day, telling her uncle the 
furniture was getting ruined through damp. She had not yet 
ventured to do away with the brown-holland covers, but they were 
doomed. Amanda was only waiting her time. 

“Mandie has got into comfortable quarters,’' thought Polly, look- 
ing round; “ I didn’t know she had any relations so well off;” and 
presently Mandie came rustling in, her long silk skirts flowing behind 
her, her hair elaborately dressed, and two white-crape lappets, sup- 
posed to do duty as a widow’s cap, falling over it. She was smiling 
and pretty, and kissed Polly very affectionately; and then she sank 
back on a lounge, spread her dress gracefully around her, and 
said, — 

“ Well, dear, you see I’ve made a move for the better.” 

“It looks like it,” said Polly; “and what have you done with 
the babies?” 

“ Peggy looks to them; it’s all she’s fit for,” said Mrs. Brooke, 
with a shrug of her shoulders. “Besides, I couldn’t have them 
with me. Uncle Sampson doesn’t like children, and they’re much 
better where they are.” 

“ There’s no doubt about that,” said Polly, “ unless you’ve altered 
very much in the twelvemonth since I last saw you.” 

“ Well, Polly, what can you expect?” said Amanda, plaintively, 
“ When a girl marries as young as I did, how is she to know any- 
thing about children? Why, just consider, I was scarcely seven- 
teen.” 

“ You’re five and-twenty now, though,” said Polly, pitilessly. 
“ But you certainly are not fit to manage children. How is it about 
the|house! Ithoughtyou were to be Mr. [Sampson’s housekeeper. I 
should think you must find it rather more difficult than keeping 
house for poor papa. There wasn’t much money, I know, but then 
he was always so easy to please.” 

“ Well, I manage,” said Amanda, with a little mystery. “ Cook 
and I understand one another. She w^as with Mrs. Sampson five 
years, and so got into Uncle Sampson’s ways. AVhen I came she 
intimated that she didn’t like ladies in her kitchen. She had put 
up with it from Mrs. Sampson, but wasn’t disposed to put up with 
it from anyone else, and I might rely upon her doing her duty, and 
so forth. Like the rest of them, she wants to be mistress, and so I 
let her — in her place. It’s much better to give way in trifles; and 
what is the good, if servants know their work, of always following 
them? It would kill me to do things as Aunt Sampson did. ButX 
don’t tell uncle so. I believe he thinks I’m half my morning in the 
kitchen. Well, if it makes him happy to think so, and makes Jones 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


72 

happy for me to keep out, I don’t see why I shouldn’t please them 
botli. Jones sends up capital dinners, and she brings me the books 
every week, and I pretend to go over them ; but I never had a head 
for figures, as you know, Polly. Still, it doesn’t matter. I daresay 
Jones is as honest as most people, — all servants would cheat if they 
only had a chance, — and if she and the tradesmen do make a little 
extra profit out of Uncle Sampson, why he’s rich, and can very weU 
spare the money.” 

Amanda leaned back yet more luxuriously on her lounge, played 
with the rings on her fingers, — Mr. Sampson had given her two or 
three of his late wife’s, — and presently went on, — 

“ There’s nothing like a little management. You never had much, 
Polly, dear; not in that way, at least; you were always so down- 
right and plain-spoken ; but noboay can say I didn’t bear with you 
very w^ell for your poor dear papa’s sake. I knew my duty to him, 
child as I was, and I knew it to you. There are not many step- 
mammas who would get on as well as I did with a daughter only 
three years younger than themselves; and I know my duty to Uncle 
Sampson,” continued Amanda, firmly; “and I am determined to 
make things as easy and pleasant to him as possible. That’s one 
reason why I left the dear children behind. I felt the parting, I 
can assure you, Polly. People needn’t think, because I’m so 5 mung 
and inexperienced, I haven’t the .feelings of a mother; but I knew 
my duty, and I did it. Their noise would have been too much for 
Uncle Sampson, and they might,” said Amanda, looking on the 
ground wfith a little gentle confusion, “have interfered with 
— with — my future prospects. This place isn’t like Highleigh, 
though it is only the east of London, and I daresay by-and-by I 
shall get Uncle Sampson to move to the west. Bayswater or Ken- 
sington is so much nicer every way. But east or west,” continued 
Amanda, with emphasis, “ it’s London, and one isn’t buried alive, and 
there’s always chances for seeing people — and children — just at the 
first, when a gentleman may be thinking matters over — why, chil- 
dren might be rather a drawback — only just at the first, you know, 
Polly.” 

“ You’re thinking of marrying again, and you’ve hardly been a 
widow for a twelvemonth, Amanda,” said Polly, severely; and, the 
next moment, she was angry with herself for her own anger. 
“Handle’s a fool, and can’t help her nature,” she thought, con- 
temptuously. “ Some fools are aflfectioiiate, though; but Handle’s 
head isn’t the only weak point about her.” 

Mrs. Brooke took out her hem-stitched handkerchief and wiped 
her eyes. 

“It’s very unkind of you to talk like that, Polly. I’m sure no 
one can say but what I was as fond of your poor dear papa as if I 
- had been of his own age, instead of five-and-twenty years younger. 

, You know when he died my feelings were such that I was fit for 
nothing, but had to leave you to see to the funeral and everything 
else. If you’d taken it to heart as I did, you never could have done 
it. But at my age, one can’t be expected not to think of settling 
again some time. I’m in no hurry, and 1 haven’t seen any one yet 
—that is no one particular,” continued Mrs. Brooke, with a pretty 
air of modest confusion. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS, 


73 


But I suppose you make sure that somebody will come?’’ said 
Polly, with a little sarcasm, which she found it impossible to repress, 
Amanda made so sure of getting a husband; “ and fools do marry, 
somehow,” thought Polly with some bitterness, as she remembered 
how this especial fool had once come between her and her fatlier. 

“ Well,” said Amanda, I can’t help it, Polly. It isn’t my fault. 
I used to think that if 1 was shut up in a nunnej-y, with a wall 
twenty feet high, and a dreadful old dragon of an abbess, such as 
one reads of, some one would come climbing over. Now, nobody 
ever marries at Highleigh, but I never stirred from it; and yet, 
when your father came fishing to the village, he must needs fall in 
love with me the very first time he saw me. And Peggy and Patty 
are there still; and there they’ll stay, old maids to the' end of their 
days. And I often think you’ll be an old maid yourself, Polly; 
but you needn’t be jealous of me. It isn’t my fault, you know. 
People can’t help other people thinking them young, and attractive, 
and all that.” 

I’m not jealous in the least, Mandie; and I think it’s very likely 
I shall be an old maid; but I hope whoever you get will be a good 
father to the babies.” 

Mrs. Brooke thought it time to exercise some of the rites of hospi- 
tality. She rang the bell for cake and wine, which were brought; 
and then Polly asked if Madge, whom she had left in the hall, 
might go down to the kitchen and have a little refreshment, too. 
“ I think that girl is always hungry, and it will be long past her 
usual tea-time before she gets home.” 

The sedate man-servant informed her that the young person was 
already in the kitchen, and almost looked as if he thought she had no 
business there. When he had left the room, Amanda, after dwelling 
a little further on her own affairs, was good enough to ask after 
Polly’s. “ I wonder you can still go on at Wurtemburg Street,” 
she said, a little contemptuously. “I should have thought you 
would have got tired of playing upper servant, before this, and for 
only sixteen pounds a-year!” 

Mrs. Williams gave me a home when I didn’t know where else 
to look for one,” said Polly; “ and she gives me quite as much as 
she can afford; and, now there is another opening before me, she is 
ready to let me take advantage of it at once. Miss Pembury, of 
Pembury Hall, in Hertfordshire, who has been staying with Mrs. 
Williams for some time, has asked me to be her companion and 
secretary. She is willing to give me fifty pounds a-year. I don’t 
exactly know what the duties of a companion are, but I think I can 
earn my salary as secretary. I always had a turn for business and 
figures; yes, I think I can help her there, if she will let me.” 

There’s a chance for you!” said Amanda, rousing herself. 
**Now, if you were like other girls, you might pick up a rich hus* 
band. Pembury Hall — acounty place, I shouldn’t wonder. There’s 
no knowing who you may meet ; and you can dress very decently 
on fifty pounds a-year.” 

“ I mean to dress on half of it, and decently, I hope,” said Polly 
with a laugh. “ As to picking up a husband, I don’t suppose Miss 
Pembury takes me into her house with a view to assist me in that. 
She has delicate health, and means to live quietly; and I am just- 


74 


SOME OF OUE GIRLS. 


to help her in the management of such affairs as she does not choose 
to leave entirely to her steward, I expect I shall have quite enough 
to do without troubling myself about a husband; and the gentlemen 
who visit at Pembury Sail are not very likely to think of me as a 
wife.” 

“ You are always so odd, Polly,” said Amanda, shaking her head 
with a little gentle reproach. “ Pve heard of girls that 'went out in 
that way doing very well indeed for themselves. Indeed, there were 
two of my friends who went out as governesses, entirely because 
they thought there was a better chance for them than by staying at 
home. And one of them, I know, made an excellent niatch.” 

“ I pity her pupils,” said Polly. “ Weil, Mandie, Ihn not so fond 
of marrying as you are; so it isn’t very likely 1 shall give the babies 
a brother-in-law so soon as you will give them a step-father. Now, 
I think I must be going. Good-by. Just ring the bell for my 
little maid.” 

Amanda kissed Polly again. She was always profuse in her 
caresses; and Polly, going downstairs, found Madge waiting for her 
in the hall. The girl looked sullen and gloomy, and wdien they 
were outside the house, Polly asked her what was amiss, but received 
no answer, or rather, just heard a few words so muttered that it was 
impossible to distinguish them. With the continuous roll of omni- 
buses, carts, and carriages in their ears, it was impossible to hope 
to hear plainly if Madge did not feel inclined to speak out; therefore 
Polly waited till they were in the churchyard, which, though a 
leading thoroughfare, is only such for foot-passengers, and, when 
they were once out of the stir and traffic of the street, she turned 
again to the girl, — 

""Now, Madge, what’s amiss? Wouldn’t they give you a warm 
corner in the kitchen?” 

They gave me a deal more o’ their jaw than I liked,” said the 
girl, sullenly. “They’re a regular stuck-up lot, they are! Begun 
starin’ at my bonnet, an’ askin’ me if I didn’t find my muff a tight 
fit; an’ then that cook — she thinks she’s somebody, she does — asked 
me what places I’d been in; an’ when I told them this was my first 
service since I’d left the Union, she as good as told me to go out 
of her kitchen. ‘ She didn’t want workhus company,’ she said. 
O!” cried Madge, sitting down on a flat tombstone, "^and rocking 
herself violently to and fro, “ what’s the good of a girl tryin’ her 
best to be decent and respectable when it’s always flung agin her 
that she’s been in the workhus? People couldn’t turn their noses 
up at me more if I’d been in prison. The workhus! the workhus! 
I don’t believe, try as hard as I will, I shall ever get quit of it.” 

Fortunately, no one was passing through the churchyard just 
then ; and Polly, seating herself by Madge’s side, tried to comfort 
the poor girl. 

“ You will leave the workhouse behind you yet, Madge, if j^ou 
try; and you may do better than many o’ those who think themselves 
so above you.” 

"‘ Oh, that fat cook!” hissed Madge. ""I’d more nor half a mind 
to heave a whole pile of plates at her; they was lyin’ quite handy. 
To see her toss her head and look as if one "was the dirt beneath her 
feet! Jane Wade did that in her first place,” said i\l:'a1ge, “ bekos 


SOME OE OUll GIRLS. 75 

her missus aggravated her; an’ she was sent back to the Union 
preshus sharp. If it hadn’t been for the thoughts of you, miss, that 
cook would have had something pitched at her head, I know.” 

‘‘ I’m very glad you did think of me, Madge,” said Polly; ‘"and 
I wouldn’t trouble myself about that cook, if I were you. She 
must be a very ignorant person. Come, leave off crying, and let’s 
make haste to baby. What a comfort it is that we ‘have been able 
to save her from the workhouse.” 

Madge wiped her eyes, and followed Polly'; not, however, with 
the alacrity which she had shown when they started. She was evi- 
dently brooding over the wrongs she had sustained at the hands of 
Mr. Sampson’s servants. Their insults had galled the girl bitterly. 
She was was just waking slowly to some sense of self-respect, 
some desire for better things, and now she was thrown back 
by the taunt of her orimn. “Was pauperism to be as indel- 
ible as crime?” thought Polly. “If the gjrl had been reared 
in some home, however lowly, which she might have felt was a 
home, and which, whatever deficiencies and deprivations it had, 
would at least have been free from the workhouse taint, she might 
have had some chance. Will the poor ever die out of the land till 
we cease to rear our paupers in those wholesale hotbeds for them, 
the workhouses?” 

“ I think rich girls like Miss Pembury might find something bet- 
ter to do than to wail over their broken hearts while there are thou- 
sands of such poor girls as Madge in the kingdom,” continued 
Polly to herself, as she glanced at her companion — sullen, scowling, 
and depressed — thrown down the ladder that led to better things 
just as she had tried to put her foot upon its lowest rung. Polly 
almost shuddered as she looked upo)i the girl, the certainty of 
coming evil seemed so completely to have obliterated the latent 
possibility of good. 


* CHAPTER XV. 

UNDER THE RAILWAY ARCH. 

Mrs. Smith and Jane were very ideased to see Polly. Baby had 
not been quite herself the last day or two; she had a little cold) 
Mrs. Smith thought. Mrs. Tosier had given it as her opinion that 
whooping-cough was setting in; Mrs. Lane, in the parlors, thought 
it might turn to croup ; but in any case, Mrs. Smi Ji was glad to see- 
Miss Brooke, and ask her if she thought it would be as well to send 
for the doctor. 

^ Baby was a little better just then. She smiled at Polly, and posi- 
tively cooed at Madge when she took her in her arms. It was<jlear 
that she was an object of considerable interest, not only to Mrs. 
Smith, but to all the other dwellers in the house. Jane was as fond 
of her, she averred, as if she was her little sister; and Mrs. Smith, 
while expressing her anxiety on her account, declared, and Polly 
bjelieved her, that she had got as fond of her as if she w^ere one of 
her own. Farming out seemed to have provided baby, at once, with 
a set of relations. Mrs. Smith and Jane were, perhaps, not al- 
together perfect, and a decent cottage in the country would have 


76 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


been better than the one room which had to answer every purpose 
of its three occupants; but the baby was better here than in the 
best ventilated, best ruled workhouse that was ever built. Say she 
grew up into another Susan, still Susan was many steps higher in 
the scale of humanity than Madge; and Polly resolved that, if ilfe 
and health were spared, she would take care that baby, when she 
had to make her w^ay in the world, should do so to better purpose 
than Susan. Madge sat and held the child, her face lighting up 
a little; then she suddenly bent and kissed it. “That’s more nor 
it w^ould ever have had in the workhus,'’ she said, sharply. “ I 
don’t think the little ’uns there ever knows what kisses is.” 

“More shame for ’em that has the lookin’ after the little ’uns/* 
said Mrs. Smith, energetically. “Howl’s a child to grow up into a 
Christian if it isn’t treated as one? Kisses an’ milk, that’s w^hat 
babies thrive on, I say. When they get bigger, they wants a bit 
o’ meat, if you can afford to give it to them; an’ they wants a slap 
or two to keep ’em from bein’ unruly. I never was too fond of 
smackin’ myself, unless they’re downright owdacious; but there’s 
no need to stint ’em in kisses while they’re little — they come cheap 
enough, thank the Lord! if people’s only got the heart to give 
*em.” 

Polly put various questions about baby, suggested by her experi- 
ence with Amanda’s little ones. Mrs. Smith had applied the vari- 
ous remedies that Polly suggested— a hot bath, and even a mustard 
plaister. Polly considered a little; then she said, “ I think it would 
be as well to have advice. I am sure Miss Pembury would say so. 
What do you think, Mrs. Smith, of calling in the doctor who 
attended Johnny Tozer?” 

Mrs. Smith did not know how sufficiently to sing his praises. He 
had cured Johnny, and sent Jane something for her weak back, 
that had made her quite another creature. And lie was pleasant to 
talk to, and affable, and considerate like, and had a way of heart- 
ening up people that did more good than even his physic. No, 
there could not possibly be a better doctor than Mr. Tyusdell. 

“ Would you go for him, Mrs. Smiih?” said Polly. “I should 
like to hear what he says before I go back. It would be more sat- 
isfactory to Miss Pembury. No, stay; 1 shall go quicker than you; 
;k if you’ll direct me I’ll call myself, and leave word for him to come 
j; at once, if he’s not at home.” 

; Mrs. Smith gave Polly the doctor’s address, and then she rose and 
i went quickly off. She was not long in reaching his house, and was 

I fortunate enough to find him at home. Mrs. Sims, wJio answered 

I the door, showed her into his study at once; and Gordon Tynsdell’s 
I e 3 ^es brightened when they fell on her. It was not often that he 
I saw so trim a figure and so pretty a face as Polly’s in his surgery. 

( He 'was young and good-looking; but to Polly he "v^^as simply 
*‘the doctor.” She stated her errand to him, just as she would have 
done it to Mr. Williams; and he told her he 'wmuld come round at 
once. Polly walked back quickly — not so quickly, however, but 
that Gordon Tynsdell overtook her, and kept by her side, talking 
as he went, by way, perhaps, of making the road the shorter. 

He thought Polly a very pretty girl, and she seemed a sensible 
one— every way she was pleasant to talk to. She, on her part, 


SOME OF OUE GIRLS. 77 

liked being with him for the few minutes of their walk, and felt as 
if she should not have cared if it had been a little longer. 

There was nothing very serious the matter with l)aby. An- 
other.bath and a powder or two, and Mr. Tynsdell had little fear 
but that she would be quite well. Then he had a word or two to 
say to Jane, and another to her mother, and, with a promise to send 
the medicine for baby as soon as he got home, he took his leave. 

Pollyhad a few little matters to settle with Mrs. Smith; then, 
too, she rose to go. It had been dark some time, and, when she got 
to the door, she found it raining; she had neither umbrella nor 
waterproof with her, for the day had been fine and frosty when she 
started. She stood at the street-door irresolute; she had not gone 
out by Mrs. Smith’s own private entrance, for fear of letting the cold 
air in on baby. She asked Jane, who had come up stairs with her to 
let her out, whether her mother had an umbrella, and Jane ran down 
and brought up one. It wras of cotton, with rents in every fold, and 
an obstinate determination not to be put up, only equaled by its 
disinclination to be put down. Jane didn’t think that any of the 
lodgers had umbrellas; and as to cabs, there was not one nearer 
then Hackney Station. Polly peered out into the darkness once 
more. “ It’s not so mry bad, Madge,” she said. “ I think we had 
better take Mrs. Smith’s umbrella, and make the best of our way to 
the station before it is worse.” 

“ I can take you under mine, if you will allow me,” said Mr. 
Tynsdell; and Polly saw him coming down the stairs, Mrs. Tozer 
following with a lighted tallow candle flaring away in a brass candle- 
stick. Mrs. Tozer had taken advantage of Mr. Tynsdell’s visit to the 
house to consult him about her youngest hope, who was cutting 
his double teeth with distressing rapidity. Mr. Tynsdell had a stout 
silk umbrella in his hand. Polly thought it would protect her new 
hat much more efiiciently than Mrs. Smith’s old cotton one, and she 
said frankly, — “ We are going as far as Hackney Station; if that is 
not taking jmu out of your way, 1 shall be very glad to do so.” 

Mr. Tynsdell assured her that it was not in the least out of his 
way, and Polly was too anxious on behalf of her new hat to ask 
herself how Hackney Station could be on his road to Victoria Park. 
She came under his umbrella very readily, and Madge followed 
with the ill-conditioned cotton one to herself. 

A very rapid thaw had set in, and the rain, being as yet only a 
drizzling shower, had not force enough to wash the congealed mud 
away. The pavement was slippery and greasy. It was the most 
natural thing in the world for Mr. Tynsdell to offer his arm, and for 
Polly to take it; she had no missisli shyness about her. It was 
pleasant to have a stout sti’ong arm to lean upon at such a juncture; 
all the pleasanter, perhaps, because Polly had so seldom had any 
one to rely upon but herself. Presently the rain came on heavier 
than before; the drizzle had changed into a storm, and Polly found 
herself clinging closer to her compiinion as the great drops dashed 
in under the umbrella. 

“ I think we must stand up out of this,” he said: ^‘it won’t last, 
but it’s bad for you while it does. A few yards to the right, and 
we shall reach the railway arch.” 

Polly was glad, indeed, to obtain the shelter of the arch; for the 


78 


SOME OE OUR GIBUS. 

rain increased in violence, and kept on when they were there— a 
steady down-pour that promised to last some time. 

“ You can't go through it/' said Gordon Tynsdell; “ there is 
nothing for it but waiting:" 

“ Only I’m keeping you," said Polly, “ and baby may be wanting 
her medicine." 

“ Baby will take no hurt for the next hour or two," said the doc- 
tor. “ She’s a lucky little damsel to have such a warm friend as 
yourself." 

“I hope she will prove lucky. Her little life has had a strange 
beginning," said Poll}^; and then she told him the story of baby’s 
rescue, and Miss Pembury’s semi-adoption of the child. Polly 
found herself talking frankly to him as if she had known him half 
her lifetime; but still he was only the doctor, and, as such, aperson 
with whom one ought to feel at home at once. Besides, Polly was 
not given to fancy that every man who paid her a little courtesy 
and kindness must necessarily be in love with her: and Gordon 
Tynsdell’s frank, cordial manner was devoid of anything that ap- 
proached flirtation. For the present, at least, they were only two 
young people into whose outer lives little of brightness entered 
but what they created for themselves; it might be “the time of 
roses ’’ for both of them, but there were very few roses growing for 
them to pluck. Tiie daily existence of each had been, for years, 
but especially with Polly, as sober, as prosaic, and as earnest as if 
they were well on in middle life. Still, Gordon Tynsdell thought 
Polly as pretty and bright a girl as any he had ever seen; and she, 
on her part, considered him very pleasant, very sensible, and, above 
all, thoroughly good-natured. 

“1 have heard of Miss Pembury," he said, presently. “Miss 
Pembury of the Hall, Hertfordshire." 

“Yes, the same. I am going to stay with her as useful com- 
panion, secretary, etc.," said Polly. 

So pretty and bright as she was, this young lady had to work for 
her living just like himself; but Gordon thought he might have 
guessed as much from her perfect self-reliance. “ I have never been 
in Hertfordshire," he said, “but I think you will And that part of' 
it fairly pretty." 

He was interrupted by Polly. ‘ ‘ Who is that Madge is talking 
to?" she said. 

Wet, dripping, shrinking from the rain and the wind, a woman — 
or rather a girl, for the slight figure, round which the poor, sod- 
deued rags clung so closely, and the face, which looked wanly out 
from the dark hair and the misshapen bonnet, were those of a girl 
in her teens, though there was a baby at her breast — came under 
Ihe arch, and was speaking to Madge, who evidently recognized 
her. The child w’as a poor little creature. Polly shuddered as 
the light fell on its face. Madge and the girl seemed to have a 
great deal to say to each other, but they said it listlessly, wearily; 
there was none of the vapid interchange of words that there generally 
is between two girls who had not seen each other for some time ; and 
yet these two were evidently friendly. The girl who had the baby 
looked starved and pinched with misery; there was a sullen, hope- 
less torpidity about her, w'orse than anything that Polly had ever 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


79 

'seen In Madge. It was as if she accepted suffering, and it might be 
sin— for there was a hard, bold, defiant look about her, into which 
Madge had not yet grown — as part of the condition of things to 
which ^he was born. 

The baby cried — a weak, pitiful cry — its feeble plaint against the 
long su:^ering of its little life ; and Polly instinctively stepped for- 
ward. “ I don’t think that child’s well. How could you bring it 
•out, sucli a night as this?” 

“ It doesn’t matter; it’s been like this ever since it was born, an’ 
it’ll neverjbe different. It doesn’t come of the right sort for thriving” 
said the girl, with a laugh that was bold in spite of its feebleness. 

“ Have you far to go?” asked Polly, arranging the poor coverings 
a little more carefully around the child. It made her heart ache to 
look on the little sharp face, wizened, and pinched, and aged, and 
yet — that was the most horrible thing of all — with a certain vitality 
in it that made you feel this child would live — would live, perhaps, 
to be an idiot or a cripple, or grow into such perverted, stunted 
maturity as its mother possessed: but it would Um as thousands like 
it live, of whom one could only say that, next to having never 
known life, death wPuld be the best thing for them. Diseased, 
maimed, stunted, and dwarfed in soul and body, still it was to know 
the curse of life, and &<^a curse, itself! 

She’s goin’ back to the Union with it,” said Madge, “ to morrow; 
to the one she belongs to. We come from the same. She’ll' sleep in 
the casual near here to-night. It’s too far to her own place.” 

vShe spoke as if she and her friend had a right of property in the 
Union; and as if it were the most matter-of-course thing to return 
to it. 

“It’s a pity she’s going back there,” said Polly, sorrowfully. 

What else is one toVlo?”said Madge, bitterly. "‘Let one try 
and keep out an’ be respectable, other folk won’t let one. I’ve heard 
say, them that’s born in the Union is safe to go back there to die, an’ 
it seems like it. One can’t get on, no how, folks w^on’t let one.” 

Try, Madge, and I’ll help you,” said Polly. 

“ Ay, but you ain’t every one; and there’s not a many like you.” 

Mr. Tynsdell now interposed. “ I don’t think it’s raining so much 
now,” he said, not sorry to take Polly from the girl with her name- 
less child. He felt already sufficient interest in her to be jealous of 
the contamination of such a presence. Polly looked regretfully at 
the little one and its mother. 

“If one could only do something,” she said; and turned away, 
with the tears in her eyes at her own helplessness. 

“ The case is chronic,” said Gordon Tynsdell;' “ past your help or 
my cure; and there are thousands such. Still for your sake ” 

For the sake of the pure, tender, pitying womanhood that looked 
out of those sorrowful eyes, he turned back and spoke gently to the 
girl, to whom womanhood had been only given to be a soiled and 
degraded thing. “ Come to my house,” and he gave her his card. 
“ I’ll see if I can do anything for your child, and you shall have a 
supper, and the means of getting a better lodging than in the casual 
ward.” 

Then he drew Polly’s hand on his arm again. This little incident, 
and his kindness to the workhouse waif, had made the pleasant 


80 


SOME OF OUB GIBLS. 


/ 


acquaintance of a moment ripen at once into friendship. The3r 
went out from under the arch, and Madge followed them into the 
chill, wet air of that wintry night, which, for two of them, had^ 
begun a new life. 


CHAPTER XVL 

AT PEMBURY HALL. 

In the drawing-room of the Hall at Radley, Mrs. Danvers was 
seated, awaiting her niece, rhree days after Polly had paid her 
visit to Amanda. Mrs. Danvers was now sixty-five, but with a 
certain amount of good looks still, for she had plenty of gray hair, 
very nicely arranged, and judiciously supplemented by art. Her 
cap did her milliner credit, and her black silk fell in rich, lu.strous 
folds around her figure, which, if rather stout, was still good. She 
had an imposing presence, although scarcely of the middle height ; 
and altogether, to judge by appearances, it would have been diffi- 
cult to find a more unexceptionable chaperon for a young lady in 
Miss Pembury’s position. 

Mrs. Danvers had installed herself in that position as a matter of 
course when Millicent was left an orphan. Her two guardians were 
extremely glad when Mrs. Danvers came forward and relieved them 
of the personal charge of the young lady. And whatever it might 
be for Millicent, there was no doubt that Mrs. Danvers’s residence 
at the Hall was a very good thing for herself. She had had three 
husbands; but, as the first had run through his property in his life- 
time, and the second had not saved very much from his salary as 
an employe in the Woods and Forests, and the third had had little but 
an annuity which died with him, Mrs. Danvers, who had had but a 
small fortune of her own, 'would have found it difficult to regulate 
her mode of life in accordance with her inclinations, if it had not 
been for the opportunity thus afforded her of sharing the home of 
her niece. 

Mrs. Danvers was sitting by the fire in the warmest corner of the 
room, and in the easiest chair it held. Her pet dog w^as at her feet.. 
If Mrs. Danvers cared for anything in this world, it was for that 
dog; but her affections, at the best, were lukewarm. She had a 
little table at her right hand, with her newspaper, her novel, her 
knitting, and her glasses on it. She was comfortable — thoroughly 
comfortable — and looked so. If the house, and all within it, had 
been her own, Mrs. Danvers could not have more fully appropriated 
the good things.it contained than she did now. 

But her meditations were not quite such pleasant ones as they 
usually were. She was a little disquieted by the fact that Millicent 
meant to bring a “ companion ” home with her. Mrs. Danvers had 
held undivided rule over the household until now, and the “com- 
panion ” might either seek to share that rule, or incite Millicent to 
possess herself of it wholly. 

“ I hope she will know her place,” thought Mrs. Danvers, “ and 
keep to it; but people whose position is undefined are never pleas- 
ant in a house. I wonder what Millicent wanted with her? Hadn’t 
she me for a companion ?™and as to a secretary, considering how 
very few letters she has to write, the place will be a sinecure.” 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


81 


I^Xesently Mrs. Danvers looked at the clock on the mantel-piece, 
•with^a little impatience. “ They will he late for lunch, and the 
cutlets will be as dry as chips; they’ve either missed the train, or 
gone \he longest way round. If the latter is the case, it’s very 
thoughtless of Millicent; she knows how much I like regularity.” 

Meanwhile, Millicent was being borne along, in her own carriage,. ' 
from th^ station, with Pauline Brooke by her side. It was as lovely 
a day as could well be in winter — bright, clear, and crisp; and even 
Millicent’s spirits rose a little, and Polly’s cheeks flushed, and her 
face brightened into positive beauty. “ This is a very pretty coun- 
try,” she said. “ I had no idea there was anything so pretty so near 
Essex. Only to think of it! We have been little more than an 
hour leaving the smoke, and the dust, and the whirl,- and the worry 
behind.” 

“ I doubt if we have left the worry,” said Miss Pemburj, with a 
faint smile. “ We shall find that wherever we go; but Aunt 
Danvers takes a great deal of that off me. I have certainly never 
had many cares in my household, as yet.” 

Polly was hardly attending to her. She was looking eagerly at 
every fresh object that caught her eyes. Each thatched cottage, 
each twisted trunk of the roadside trees,— the homesteads standing 
with tlieir backgrounds of farm buildings and haystacks, the cattle 
nibbling the short, frozen grass, or looking with mild eyes at the 
carriage as it was carried past them, — struck on her with a new dC' 
light. It is only born Londoners who thoroughly enjoy the country, 
and Millicent looked at her with a little amused w^onder. 

“If you like the drive so much, we will take the furthest way 
round,” she said, “ and that will bring us through Radley. I should 
have taken the shorter way myself, but you may as well see a little 
of the village, — not that there is much in it to see,” said Mrs. Pern- 
bury, languidly. 

Radley was but a small place. There was the butcher’s, the 
baker’s, and the general shop, the blacksmith’s, and a few laborers’ 
cottages. But Miss Pembury’s carriage was known, and the children 
stopped and courtesiedas she passed, and the women looked with a 
respectful curiosity after it, and the doctor, driving past, raised his 
hat to the occupant of the carriage, while even the blacksmith 
paused in the midst of shoeing a ^ horse, and made some remark — 
evidently upon Miss Pembury^’s return. 

“ You are like a little queen coming back to your kingdom,” said 
Polly, with a smile; “ and I think all your subjects are very glad to 
see you amongst them again.” 

“ I don’t think they have seen very much of me, however,” said 
3Iiss Pembury. “ Aunt Danvers never wished that I should go 
very much amongst them. I taught in the Sundny School, and, of 
course, there were blankets and petticoats for the poor at Christmas, 
and soup every week during the winter; but still I don’t know so 
much of my people as I ought. I am sure you will say so,” added 
the heiress, with a faint smile. Since she had known Polly, smiles 
— only wintry ones, it is true, but still smiles— had come to Millicent . 
Pembury’s lips. “ But then,” she continued, “you always take life 
so much in earnest.” 

“Because I have never been able to make anything else of it,” 


82 SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 

said Polly. There has been very little play time for me, re- 
member.” 

They were now at the gate of the lodge, and the woman who 
kept it came forward to open it, and stood coiirtesying to lier young 
mistress. Miss Pembury bent forward graciously, then drew her- 
self back, with a scarlet flush on her cheek, as she caught sight of 
a girl, some years younger than herself, standing near the doorway 
of the lodge, with a baby in her arms. The woman at the lodge 
seemed to perceive the look, for she turned back on the girl, as if 
to reprove her for coming forward. It all passed in a minute, but 
Polly’s curiosity was aroused. “ That was a pretty girl with the 
child,” she said, “ wdio is she?” 

“ Her child is her disgrace,” said Millicent Pembury, slowly. If 
Aunt Danvers knew that Mrs. Chubb allowed her to enter the lodge, 
she would be very angry.” 

She is very young — and so pretty,” said Polly, as if the cul- 
prit’s beauty ought to be considered a redeeming point in her 
favor. 

“ The greater the pity,” said Millicent; but there was no pity in 
the tone in wdiich she said it. 

So far apart, those tw^o girls! The one unworthy even to enter 
the gates of the other — of that other, who might have asked herself 
whether it would have been impossible for her to have sinned as 
this her outcast sister had sinned, if, like her, she had grown up in 
a home wdiere moral and pln^sical purity were alike impossible. 
That question did cross Polly’s audacious mind, for the pretty child- 
like face of the sinner at the gates still haunted it; but there was no 
further time to indulge such thoughts, for they were now^ within 
sight of the Hall, and Polly looked with a little curiosity at her new 
home. 

A handsome, comfortable place, of the time of the Charleses, 
with nothing especially quaint or picturesque about it, standing 
pleasantly in the center of a well-wooded, though not very large 
park, and looking over some of the prettiest country in Hertford- 
shire. The large flagged hall was lit by a gre^t fire of logs, w^hich 
flashed ruddily on the pictures around, and on the old carved oaken 
settles and tables. Tw^o elderly men-servants w^ere at the door to 
receive their young mistress, and to usher her into the drawing- 
room, where Aunt Danvers slowly rose, and advanced a step Or two 
to welcome her. 

The two ladies kissed — politely. Polly saw clearly, what she 
had pretty well divined, from Millicent’s sketch of her aunt, that 
there was no great warmth of affection between them. Then Mrs. 
Danvers slightly bent her head w hen Polly w^as introduced to her, 
but made no further sign of wrelcome. &ie had resolved that if 
Polly did not know her place^ it should not be through any fault of 
hers. 

“Putt, send one of the housemaids to show Miss Brooke to her 
room,” said Mrs. Danvers. “ Milly, don’t be long undressing, or 
lunch will be spoiled; or shall Butt take your wraps for yuu?” 

Putt was Millicent’s own maid— ostensibly ; that is to say, Miss 
Pembury had the privilege of paying her; but Mrs. Danvers mo- 
nopolized the greater part of lier time and attentions, just as she 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


83 


monopolized the greater part of the other luxuries or henefits which 
her niece's fortune enabled her to obtain. If a queen, Millicent had 
decidedly been hitherto a reine faineante; but the passive gentle- 
ness of l\er character had made it very easy for her to accept the 
position. She rose now. “ 1 will go to m}'' room, aunt, and we will 
be down io lunch in a few minutes; and, Rutt, you can show Miss 
Brooke to \ier room yourself, and then come to me.” 

She’ll fepoil that girl,” said Mrs. Danvers, nestling down into 
her cushiony; and she’s a girl who’ll presume upon being spoiled. 
Pert. I’m sure, by the look of her, and much too good-looking for 
the place. She’ll presume on her good looks, — girls of that Class 
always do, — and think they’ve a right ^to carry everything before 
them*.” 

Polly was delighted with her room when she reached it. Mrs. 
Williams, when Sarah Pembury, had occupied it, and it had, there- 
fore, seemed to Mrs. Danvers the fittest to assign to “ the new com- 
panion.” The furniture was of the date of the last century, and 
the carpet and the chintz curtains were faded; but it was large, and 
the appointments, if old and dim, were still plentiful and good. 
There were two or three pictures — family portraits, put here to be 
out of the way; and old china, which was not thought good enough 
for any other room. But the pictures and china were luxuries to 
Polly, and the windows looked over the park, and ivy crept round 
them — it was altogether so different from tiie bare, spare meanness 
of the chamber she had shared with the little Williamses in Wur- 
temburg Street. The large swing-glass, in which Polly’s face shone 
so freshly, was such a pleasant change from the ten-inch plate in a 
cheap mahogany frame, which hung against the wall of her former 
room, and which always caricatured any one who looked in it. 
The spider-legged table against one of the windows, on which she 
placed her work-box and writing materials, at once — the cushioned 
arm-chair she drew up to it, — the couch at the foot of the bed, — all 
were unknown luxuries to Polly, who had never had such a room 
before — never dreamed of it, indeed. Her own home had been as 
scanty in its appointments as the one in Wurtemburg Street; and 
the plenty of household plenishing, the luxury of spare chairs and 
tables, the superfiuity of ornaments and china wdiich she saw 
around her, were things wholly new to her experience. 

There was no fire in the room. Mrs. Danvers had not ordered it 
for “ the new companion,” thinking it might spoil her. She had 
never spoiled Sarah Williams, her own relation, in that w^ay, and 
she did not mean to spoil Miss Brooke. But Polly’s blood was 
tingling with the excitement of the new world around her, and the 
pleasure of having such a roomy,^ well-lined nest for herself, and 
she moved briskly about, unlocked her box, and put her possessions 
here and there, till she had time for more orderly arrangements; 
and then paid such attention to her toilet as she thought would 
make her presentable at lunch. 

She had just finished, when Millicent knocked at her door; and, 
in answer to Polly’s “Come in!” entered, and looked around her. 

“ I hope you like your room,” she said. “ But I’m afraid you’re 
cold. Aunt must have forgotten to order the fire.” 

never dreamed of such a luxury as a fire in my bed-room,” 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


84 

said Polly, with a laugh. You forget the surroundings I have 
been used to."' 

“ But you must be perished, said Millicent, shivering. I must 
speak about it. But come to lunch now. There is nothin| Aunt 
Danvers likes worse than having any meal a moment behind its 
time.” 

But they were five minutes behind when they entered the dining- 
room, as Mrs. Danvers let them know. “ There is nothing,” she 
said, as she took her place at the table, “that so interferes with 
one’s comfort, as irregularity at meals. Poor Mr. Greville used to 
say a dinner kept was a dinner spoiled. When you know us better, 
Miss Brooke, you will see the value of such punctuality.” 

“ I hope I shall know it and practice it too,” said Polly. “ But 
to-day, even if 1 had been ready in time, which I was not, I could 
not have found my way downstairs unless Miss Pembury had kindly 
come to show me the way.” 

“1 think you have a bell,” said Mrs. Danvers stifiBiy; “and I 
have desired the second housemaid to answer it. She would have 
directed you how to find the dining-room.” 

Polly felt that she had offended, but was not quite clear how. 
She ate her cutlet with a good appetite, however, and thought 
that life at the Hall must be a much pleasanter thing than life in 
Wurtemburg Street, if the meals were always as well served as this 
one. Mrs. Danvers recommended her niece to take tomato sauce. 
“ Poor Mr. Landon was so partial to it. He said it alwaj^s put him 
in mind of that book of Dickens’s — was it * Nickleby ’ or ' Pickwick?’ 
— I think it was Dickens; or was it Thackeray?” continued Mrs. 
Danvers, to whom one author was as good or as bad as another. 

“ ‘ Pickwick,’” said Polly, taking the sauce herself, thus recom- 
mended. 

“Thank you. Miss Brooke,” with a slight bend of the head; 
“ but the name was not material. Mr. Langdon thought the sauce 
so good for those troubled with dyspepsia; he was a martyr to it 
himself — singularly so, for such a young man.” 

Mrs. Danvers was faithful, with laudable impartiality, to the 
memory of her three husbands. Sometimes she favored her friends 
with reminiscences of the first, or tender anecdotes of the second, 
of loving allusions to the third. It was believed that Mr. Danvers 
himself iiad never been allowed to forget that each of his predeces- 
sors still held a place, equal to his own, in her affections; but he 
was now enshrined in her memory by their side, and it is to be 
hoped his shade was better satisfied with his widow’s constancy 
than the living man had always been with his wife’s. 

Mrs. Danvers ate slowly and deliberately. Lunch, to her, held 
the second place amongst the events of the day. The greatest was 
dinner. But at last, when Polly had begun to think that it was 
paying too dear a price for an}^ meal to sit so long over it as Miss 
Pembury and she had to do out of courtesj^ to Mrs. Danvers, that 
lady rose, and slowly led the way to the drawing-room. 

“ The fire flushes one so,” she said, as. having settled herself in 
her cushions, she took a hand screen from the mantelpiece. But it 
was not the fire that so regularly, after lunch and dinner, flushed 
Mrs. Danvers’s face. “And now, Milly dear, I have all sorts of 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 85 

things to talk over with you, and I daresay Miss Brooke will be 
glad of an hour or two in her own room.” 

“ Quite so,” said Polly, “ as I have all my unpacking to do.” 

‘‘ But there is no fire,” said Millicent. 

I don’t think Miss Brooke will find it cold. Sarah Williams 
used to say that was the warmest room in the house. She never 
wanted a fire,” said Mrs. Danvers. 

I shall not feel the cold in the least,” said Polly; and left the 
room at once, feeling not only that Mrs. Danvers wanted her out of 
the room, but that she was not disposed to make her stay in the 
house too comfortable. 

“ Teaching children is tiring,” said Polly to herself especially 
when one has so much to do with them as I had with the little 
Williamses; but a governess knows what is expected of her, and it 
seems to me that a companion never does. 1 wonder how I am to 
tell when I am in the way, and ought to get out of it? I suppose I 
shall find out in time; and I shall have something to put'Up with 
from that old lady, i see. However, one can’t expect to earn fifty 
pounds a-year for doing nothing.” 

“You’ll spoil that girl,” said Mrs. Danvers, when Polly had 
closed the door behind her. “ She would never have expected a fire 
if you had not put it into her head; and you might have left her to 
find her own way down, or ring for a servant, instead of bringing 
her yourself. Hothing ruins people of that class so much as putting 
them out of their place. 1 wish you could have heard dear Mr. 
Greville on that subject. And why did you bring her?” 

“ Because I couldn’t go on living here alone,” said Millicent, with 
flushed cheeks and downcast eyes; “ because I must have some- 
body about me to whom I can turn to h6lp me out of nw-eelf, — 
somebody strong, helpful, energetic, who will not let me brood and 
brood over my own misery.” 

“ Which I have always thought it a very indelicate thing indeed 
of you to do, Millicent,” said her aunt, with some severity. “ If you 
would only rouse yourself! If you young people did but know 
what real troubles are!” 

“I know my own, aunt,” said Millicent; “and I think Pauline 
Brooke will help me to bear them better than I have done. I mean 
to try what we can do together.” 

“All I have to say is, don’t spoil her,” repeated Mrs. Danvers, 
energetically. “ And I hope you will give her to understand that 
she will be expected to make herself of some use. I wonder if she 
writes a good hand? She might help me with my correspondence 
^the business part of it, you know. You see, what with the Gre- 
villes, and the Landons, and all poor Mr. Danvers’s relations, 1 have 
no time really for the begging-letters, and the answers to invitations, 
and that kind of thing.” 

“ That kind of thing is precisely what Miss Brooke is going to do 
for me/* said Millicent; “ the begging -letters especially.” 

“ I hope you are not going in for philanthropy, Millicent. Mr. 
Danvers used to say the greatest bores in society, and the people 
who neglected their own families the most, were the professed 
philanthropists; and it’s an odd, unladylike thing for a young worn- 


86 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


an to take up,— it leads them to know so much, and to do so much, 
which young women ought to let alone altogether/* 

“ I don’t know how that may be, aunt,” said Millicent; but I 
want to make a better tiling of my life than I have 3"et done. If I 
don’t,” she added, almost desperately, “ God knows how I shall 
bear it I ” 

You must bear it, Millicent; and it is not right to talk in that 
strange and excited manner. I don’t think you’re improved by 
your "visit to London. Miss Brooke strikes me as an odd young per- 
son, and she seems to have obtained too much influence over you. 
Bear your life! Why, if you marry you will have some one to help 
you bear it. And now, Millicent, this brings me’ to what I had to 
say to you. A girl like you must many — ought to marry; it’s a. 
duty you owe to society, to yourself, to your friends; and if Mr. 
Horace Gordon — ” 

“ Don't cried the girl, putting up her hand as if to ward off a 
blow. “ Aunt, why do you bring up his name?” 

“ Because you rnust learn to hear it without showing that it 
affects you,” said Mrs. Danvers. “It may seem unfeeling, Milli- 
cent; but I cannot encourage you in this puerile nonsense. The 
common sense of the matter is, that you can’t throw your life away 
because Mr. Gordon has thrown away his. You must marry, and 
marry suitably. He has kept others off ; but now that it is gener- 
ally known that all is at an end between you, there will be a differ- 
ence. Mr. Tilburne, of the Roydons, was, — well, I suppose I may 
say, sounding me on the subject. I told him everything was at an 
end — quite at an end, between you and Mr. Horace Gordon, and he 
intimated, with sufficient plainness, what his own wishes were — in. 
fact, Millicent, it rests witk you to become Mrs. Tilburne, of the 
Roydons, and I really don’t see that you could do better.” 

“ If you please, aunt, we won’t talk about this at all. I have no 
wish to marry, and I cannot see the necessity of my doing so,” said 
Millicent, with a little irritation. 

“ Don’t lose your temper, my dear — there is nothing so uqlady- 
like; and in your case, Millicent, to get into a habit of irritability 
would be so exceedingly foolish. People would say you had had a 
disa]>pointment, and were soured in consequence, and that would 
injure your prospects so very much. You must never let it seem as 
if Mr. Gordon’s conduct had affected you in the least. Of course, 
it is slightly awkward that he should have behaved so badly; and 
the best thing for you will be a successful good marriage. Now, 
Mr. Tilburne — ” 

“ If you please, aunt, don’t bring up his name again.” 

“Very well, my dear; but I asked him to drop in to luncli 
to-morrow, and you must be civil in your own house, remember.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

MR. TILBURNE’S office. 

The good luncheon, of which Polly had so approved, was fol- 
lowed by a still better dinner, and Polly’s bed was of a softness and 
warmth, to which she was wholly unaccustomed. Millicent, too. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


87 

Rad given directions that there should be a fire kept in her room; 
-and, the servants seeing that their young mistress, who so rarely 
interfered in matters of household detail, took sufficient interest in 
Miss Brooke to do so, and being further propitiated by Polly's 
pleasant face and pleasant manner, she was not likely to suffer from 
any want of attention on their i)art. Mrs. Danvers was slightly 
disagreeable, but she went to sleep after dinner; and then there was 
the box from Mudie’s to look over, and two or three new magazines, 
-and every chair in the warm, luxurious drawing- room was. a nest of 
softness, and all seemed so luxurious and harmonious, that Polly 
found the evening fly on wings. Then the breakfast, the next 
morning, was a perfect banquet compared to the Yf'urtemburg 
Street meals; and, after breakfast, Millicent took her into the 
library, where a great wood-fire was burning, that threw a warm 
light over the brown calf-bindings of the older books, and the dark 
mahogany furniture, and the pictures, and the busts of departed 
worthies. 

Life at the Hall seemed as pleasant to Polly as if it were in Fairy- 
land. It seemed as if she could forget all the vulgar, sordid cares 
and anxieties with which she had been so familiar from her child- 
hood. Wurtemburg Street, and the back parlor behind the chem- 
ist’s shop, where her father had sat, and read, and dreamed the 
hours away, were now as if they belonged to another world. The 
troubles with milkmen and butchers; with Amanda’s helplessness 
and her many babies: with her father’s dreamy abstractedness from 
the things of this world, — all these, and so many other troubles of 
the kind that had beset her from her earliest recollection, were now as 
if Ihe}^ had never been. MissPembury, herself, too, was so gracious 
and pleasant; the slight reserve and hauteur which had frosted her 
over before the advent of the baby in Wurtemburg Street had quite 
gone, and she was ready to tell Millicent stories of the old portraits, 
and to talk with her about the books, both old and new, as frankly 
and as freely as if they both stood on the same standpoint, instead 
of having what would have seemed, a short time back, the immeas- 
urable gulf of her wealth and social position between them. 

They were just two girls— nothing more; and the weaker and 
less happy one was gkd to have found a stronger and more helpful 
nature than her own to lean upon. 

Mrs. Danvers left them to themselves for the morning. She bad 
her dwly round of duties to perform, and she certainly performed 
them well. She visited the kitchen daily. As she always said, it 
ivas a great effort; ,but the result achieved was worth it. She had 
a long conference with the cook in that functionary’s own region, 
and the result was the due succession of the admirable meals to 
which Polly had done such justice. Then the upper housemaid 
and the butler had their turn. Mrs. Danvers had a talent for do- 
mestic administration, and always chose her niece’s servants wisely. j 
Then, when these labors were over, she returned to her own especial ! 
corner in the drawing-room, and read the paper, or wrote to her 
numerous correspondents. She was on excellent terms with the 
principal members of each of her deceased husbands’ families. In- 
deed, Mrs. Danvers, throughout life, had made it a rule to “keep ; 
up” with anybody who might, by any possibility, be useful, and i 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


88 

never to quarrel 'with any one. And these various duties sufficed 
her this morning till luncheon was drawing nigh, and Mr. Tilburne,, 
of the Roy dons, made his appearance. 

Polly made his acquaintance at lunch, and thought him a good- 
looking young man, with nothing very particular about him. He 
was just an average specimen of his class, but the class altogether 
was new to Polly. He had been educated at Eton, and knew noth- 
ing of the history of his own country, very little of the spelling of 
its language, and still less of its syntax. He was tolerably proficient 
in field sports, and classed poachers and vermin together, inasmuch 
as both interfered with his favorite pursuit. He was as good tem- 
pered as most men, as long as he had his own way; and he was 
gentlemanly in his manners, and, on the whole, promised to develop 
into an average Justice of the Peace and Member of Parliament. 
He was very attentive to Miss Pembury, but not obtrusively so; and 
the purpose of his coming was as clear to Polly as if she had over- 
heard the admonitions with which Mrs. Danvers had favored her 
niece respecting him. 

** If she could get to like him, and if he is worth her liking, it 
would be a very good thing for her,” thought Polly; “ but, from 
what I have seen of Miss Pembury, I very much doubt whether 
she wull ever again like any one in this world well enough to marry 
him.” 

Millicent was civil to her guest, as her aunt had told her she 
should be; she showed nothing worse than polite indifference ta 
his attentions, and Aunt Danvers was satisfied, and Mr. Tilburne 
felt content to bide his time — intending, however, that such biding 
should not be long. 

So a fortnight went on, during which Mr. Tilbnrne’s visits were 
almost daily, and his attentions as unobtrusive, but as unremitting, 
as at first. Miss Pembury neither encouraged nor rebuffed them. 
She seemed almost passive; and Mrs. Danvers, who had alw'ays 
had her way in everything that concerned her niece, flattered her- 
self she should have her way also in her marriage. For many rea- 
sons, Mrs. Danvers wished to bring this about. Mr. Tilburne had 
a “ place ” of his own; and would, naturally, rather take his wife 
to his owm house than reside in hers. But the ball would do ad- 
mirably for a dower-house for Millicent. In contemplating a mar - 
riage, it was only natural that Mrs. Danvers should think of wido’w- 
hood. But while awaiting the possible return of its present occu- 
pant, the Hall would require keeping in order, and Mrs. Danvers 
meant to do this for her niece. To let it, either furnished or unfur- 
nished, would be a desecration of the family residence that no Pem- 
bury could consent to. 

And besides all this, Mrs. Danvers honestly believed that the 
only thing her niece could do -with her life was to spend it in mar- 
riage — that was the end and aim of a woman’s existence. A single 
woman was a poor, imperfect creature — a living failure— a thing to 
be looked upon with a pity that was very nigh contempt. She con- 
sidered that she was only fulfilling her duty in urging Millicent to 
marry, and Mrs. Danvers had a great idea of doing her duty. Duty 
was so safe, respectable, and proper, as far as" this world went^ 
and a good investment for the next. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


89 


At the end of the fortnight, Mr. Tilburne spoke. Millicent had 
•expected and dreaded this proposal, and 5^et, when it came, was 
■cowardly enough to feel some surprise. It had come so soon upon 
her! Why could he not have given her a little longer? , As far as 
she gave any answer at all that was the gist of her answer, and 
Mr. Tilburne would not consider it as a negative. He told her he 
was content to wait; and he told Mrs. Danvers, afterward, as much. 
“Perhaps I have been a little too hasty,’' he said; “ 1 ought to 
Iiave given her a little more time after that wretched affair of Gor- 
don’s; but it will be only a question of time,” he added, with a 
douch of very natural complacency. He was not quite such an 
egotist as Mr. Tomlyn, or, at least, he had the grace to hide his 
egotism better; but he was somewhat of his opinion, that in mar- 
riage it was the woman who gained, and the man who gave every- 
thing. 

Mrs. Danvers did not scold Millicent for not giving a more de- 
cided answer. On the contrary, she appeared to assume that Milli- 
cent had given all but an acceptance, and congratulated her on her 
‘good sense, giving her a kiss, that was almost affectionate, as a sign 
of approval. In vain Millicent urged that Mr. Tilburne ought to 
look upon himself as a rejected suitor. Mrs. Danvers would hear 
of nothing of the kind. She had told him he had come too soon, — 
well, he would come later; he would wait any lime in reason. He 
was not exacting or unreasonable, and could make allowances; 
“ but, of course, Millicent, when a gentleman is told to wait, he 
expects that if he does wait he will ultimately obtain that which he 
has waited for,” said Mrs. Danvers, with that dignified air of judi- 
<jial severity which she was apt to assume when she wished to be 
unusually impressive. 

^ “ I never told him he would have me for the waiting,” cried Mil- 
licent. “If he told you so, he must have misunderstood me alto- 
gether, aunt. If I could only be let alone! only left to rest in 
peace! — or, at any rate, for a few years.” 

“ A few years make a great difference to a woman/’ said Mrs. 
Danvers,” and you are nearly twenty-two as it is, Millicent. Don’t 
cry. What a pity it is you cannot keep your feelings under proper 
control. Let me ring for Rutt to give you some sal volatile.” 

I “I am not crying, aunt; and there is no occasion to trouble 
iRutt,” said Millicent, who was not quite so calm as she would have 
liked her aunt to believe. 

“We won’t say anything more about it at present,” said Mrs. 
Danvers, diplomatically. “ Think it over by yourself, Millicent. 1 
am sure, when you do so, your good sense will show you that I am 
in the right.” Then Mrs. Danvers leaned back in her chair, and 
folding her hands placidly on her ample chest, closed her eyes ; and 
Millicent knew that it would be useless to say anything further. 
Whenever Mrs. Danvers resigned herself to repose, her niece knew 
that she declined all further controversy, and considered that she 
iiad the best of whatever argument had been sustained. 


90 SOME OF OUE tJlELS. 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 

'“■VVHAT ELSE SHALL I DO?’" 

Millicent was ruffled and disturbed by her conversation with 
her aunt, and went to Polly’s room, thinking to recover her com- 
posure by tallying matters over with her. But she forgot, till she 
arrived there, that Polly had been dispatched on an errand to the 
village by Mrs. Danvers, and, when the fact occurred to her recol- 
lection, she resolved to sit down and wait there till her return. 

Mrs. Danvers had asked Polly to call at tlie school with a message 
from her to the mistress. Mrs. Danvers patronized the school, and 
showed a dignified graciousness to its mistress. She made a point 
of visiting it at least once a month, and she was in the habit of call- 
ing at one or other of the cottages occasionally. Millicent, before 
her illness, had sometimes accompanied her on these visits; but, 
except for a drive or two, she had not. yet, since her return, gone 
beyond her gates. Mrs. Danvers had had a slight cold, and had 
asked Polly to look in at the school, and acquaint the mistress with 
the fact, and inquire as to the progress of some needle-work which 
the elder girls of the school had in hand for “the House.” Then 
she was to take a pot of black-currant jelly to an old woman who 
was one of Mrs. Danvers’s favorites, and inquire after the rheuma- 
tism of an old man who was another. Mrs. Danvers always did 
“her duty ” conscientiously and severely by her poorer neighbors; 
and, if frowning on all delinquents, and visiting all transgressions 
with unsparing judgment, would have made Eadley a model village,, 
it would have been one. 

Millicent had, therefore, a little time to think over her aunt’s ad- 
vice, and call her good sense to her aid; and, when she did think it 
over, was it so very bad, after all? She did not love this man who 
had asked her to be his wife ; and all the love that it had ever been 
in her to give, all the love that it wmuld ever be hers to know, had 
been poured forth upon Horace Gordon. But what was there for a 
woman, even if that woman was an heiress, but marriage? That, 
was the creed in which Millicent had been brought up by her aunt, 
and the creed of so many girls as good and as well born as herself. 
Failing marriage, a woman had missed the purpose of her life. 
Would it not be better for her to take Mr. Tilburne, of the Eoy- 
dons, make the best of such an imperfect union as theirs would be, 
and have the status and the privileges of a married woman, than 
to sink into that poor contemptible nonentity, an old maid — an old 
maid, not knowing what to do with her riches or her life? 

“ ril ask Pauline about it,” said Millicent. She had not yet re- 
laxed sufficiently from the little stateliness of reserve which was 
habitual to her to call her new friend by that abbreviation of her 
name y-diich, to those who knew Miss Pauline Brooke best, seemed 
so^ delightfully characteristic of her. But she had dropped the 
Miss Brooke, and intimated that Miss Pembury might be dispensed 
with, which permission Polly, having due regard to Mrs. Danvers’s- 
feelings, had declined to act upon unless they were quite. alone. 


SOME OE OUll GIELS. 


91 


*^How pretty she has made this room look/’ she thought, as she 
looked around her. “ I should never have thought a new arrange- 
ment of these old things would have made such a different appear- 
ance. 

Indeed, Polly had made herself a very cozy nest in the old- 
fashioned chamber assigned to her. There were her own small pos- 
sessions about, a few flowers fi-om the amply filled greenhouses; 
and the formal spindle-backed chairs and spider-legged tables had 
been placed in positions in which they found it impossible to pre- 
serve their character for stiffness and angularity. And, thanks to 
Millicent, there was that crowding feminine luxury, a bedroom fire 
■constantly maintained; and the fire now, as she bent over it, threw 
out jets of flame, and lit the dark furniture, the chintz curtains, and 
Polly’s face, as she stood in the doorway. 

But there was a cloud on Polly’s face, which neither her bright, 
pretty room nor Miliicent’s eager look, as she turned toward her, 
could dispel. 

“ 1 have made myself at home,” said the latter, with one of those 
smiles that of late she had bestowed only on Polly. I have been 
waiting here for you, because I wanted very much to see you. 
I have been vexed, worried,” she continued, with a shade of irrita- 
tion; “ and I suppose you can guess what it is about.” 

Poll}^ shook her head in the negative. She had thrown off her 
outdoor wrappings while Millicent had been speaking, and taken a 
low chair opposite Miss Pembury. 

“ I don’t know,” she said, “ wbat you can have to vex you here. 
Everything in this house goes on with such smoothness, life seems 
to roll on velvet. One would think cares and troubles were not in 
existence so long as one only kept within the gates.” 

If Millicent had been less engrossed by her own annoyance, 
she might have seen that without “ the gates ” Polly had found some- 
thing that disquieted her; but, with that unconscious selfishness 
which such a training as Mrs. Danvers’s is sure to develop, even in 
the most amiable nature, she saw nothing of the kind, but w^ent on, 
^‘It is about Mr. Tilburne; he has been here so much of late, and 
Aunt Danvers has been speaking to me about him. I suppose you 
can, at least, guess what she had to say, and what he said to me 
before he left this morning?” 

“Yes; it has been easy to read Mr. Tilburne’s errand,” said 
Polly; “but I don’t know w^hether I am to congratulate j^ou on 
having allowed it to be a successful one?” 

“No. I thought I had made myself understood by him ; but it 
seems not. I told him he w^as abrupt, premature; and he appears 
to have taken that as an encouragement instead of the opposite. 
And Aunt Danvers thinks so too ; and, oh ! Pauline,” she added, with 
a heavy sigh, “ I suppose I shall have to give in to them both. One 
must marry sooner or later, and it may as well be Mr. Tilburne, of 
the Roy dons, as any one else.” 

“ I never could see that marriage was such a universal necessity,” 
said Polly. “ 1 think a woman ma}^ get through life very well with- 
out it. But if you really like Mr. Tilburne,” she added, doubtfully, , 
for there was nothing in Miliicent’s manner to warrant such a sup- 
iposition, “ if you like him — or love him, rather, for I don’t think 


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mere liking is enough to marry upon — why, 1 hope, with all my 
heart, you will be happy/' 

And suppose there is no love and but little liking?" said Milli- 
cent, slowly. Then, as if with a sudden desperation, she said, 
rapidly, and almost vehemently, — “ It is no longer possible for me 
to love either Mr. Tilburne or any man but that one whom you say, 
and whom my better feeling teaches me 1 ought never to look 
upon again. 1 believe I shall, in time, like Mr. Tilburne as well as 
I can ever like any one. I suppose we shall be as happy together 
as the average of married people are. He won’t expect too much ; he 
knows what has been, and will be content to take me as I am. 
And I think a woman does better to marry, for what else can she 
do with herself? I am not like you," she added, with a pitiful 
quivering of the lip; “I can’t stand alone, Pauline." 

“ Then, for God’s sake. Miss Pembury," cried Polly, impetuous- 
ly, “ take care that the crutch you lean upon is whole and sound, and 
one that will never fail you in your need. A marriage without 
love! 1 think it is the most awful thing that can be. You will 
wrong the man you marry as much as you wrong yourself. And 
he must be a poor thing to be content with one bit less than the 
whole heart of his wife. Only to think of it! Days and nights in 
the closest companionship with one for whom, at best, you only 
feel a lukewarm friendship. “ It is horrible!" said Polly, with 
shudder, ‘ ‘ Only to think of all that marriage is — of all that it in- 
volves; and to enter it on the strength of a faint liking for a gentle- 
manly acquaintance! And if children come — ’’ she added, crimson- 
ing as if with her own vehemence; “ do not be very angry with me,_ 
Miss Pembury, if I tell you how it seems to me then. Do you 
remember that girl with her nameless child we saw at the gates of 
your park the day you came home to it? You said that child — such 
a bright, rosy little thing it looked, too — was her disgrace. It does 
seem to me that if a w^oman marries for the sake of a home, or a 
vocation, or a position in society, — for anything but because she 
believes the man she marries is worthy of all the love and all the 
esteem and respect that she can give him, — that her children, too, 
are her disgrace as much as if they came of an un wedded mother. 
If a woman chooses to sell herself, I think her shame is none the 
less because she has a gold ring and a name throwm into the bar- 
gain." 

“You speak plainly. Miss Brooke," said Millicent, almost as 
coldly as if, like Mrs. Danvers, she thought it necessary sometimes 
to put her dependent back “in her place." Polly detected the 
change in her tone. 

“ I beg your pardon if I have spoken too plainly," she said; “but 
you did me the honor. Miss Pembury, when you asked me to accept 
the situation of your companion, to tell me that you did not so 
much want a hired dependent about 5’OU, ready to make herself use- 
ful in all manner of miscellaneous services, as a friend, and, it might 
sometimes be, an adviser. I told you I was young, inexperienced, 
and not particularly clever; but you told me you were desolate, 
lonely, and sisterless — that you had had a great trouble, which 
seemed to have taken all the energy and zest out of your life. You 
told me, too, that my companionship, as that of a girl who had beeni 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


9a 


obliged to think and act for herself, might be of service^to youj 
that you would bear with such deficiencies as 1 told you of; and 
that you would never find fault with me for the sin of over frank- 
ness. I’ve been guilty of that sin now, I’m afraid; but it seems a& 
if I could not measure my words when I saw you — you, Miss Pem- 
bury, with all that God has given you, with all the means and 
opportunities which He has placed in your hands — ready to commit 
what does seem to me a woman’s greatest sin, just because ono 
trouble has come to you amidst so many blessing§, and to fling 
away your whole life just because you don’t know what better to 
do with it.” 

“ And what better can I do with it?” cried Millicent, querulous- 
ly. “ You’re visionary and impracticable, Pauline; and you don’t 
know — you don’t know, you never can know — how hard my life i& 
at times. If I could only escape from myself. There would be 
something for me to do if I were married ; one has then so many 
claims to which one must attend ; and I should do my duty fairly 
by Mr. Tilburne, and he wouldn’t expect too much of me.” 

“ That is very fortunate,” said Polly, dryly; and, rising from the 
chair she had taken opposite Millicent, she proceeded to put away 
her out-door garments. Her hands were trembling and her lips- 
quivering, for Millicent had grieved and vexed her; and something 
she had seen while out of doors had grieved and vexed her too; 
and Polly was neither saint nor stoic. But she turned her face away 
from Millicent, and busied herself in smoothing the plumes of her 
hat, and folding her jacket, as if the care of her garments were all 
she was thinking of. Millicent watched her nervously. She had 
grown very fond of Polly. This girl, who had never known either 
sister or mother, felt, in the strong yet tender, the self-sustaining 
and yet self-forgetful, nature of her companion, something that 
supplied the needs of her own weaker organization. 

She had grieved her friend; she never thought of Polly as her 
paid companion. Millicent was strong in her affections, if strong- 
in little else; and her love for Polly was loyal and large enough, 
not merely to bridge over the gulf between their respective posi- 
tions, but to make Millicent, at least, forget it almost entirely. 

She rose now, and went to Polly, and bent over her caressingly . 

“I’ve vexed you,'*’ she said; “ you’re crying, Pauline!” and she 
looked at her in amazement. “I — 1 never thought,” she said 
simply, “ that tears were possible to you!” 

“ I’ve shed plenty of them, ho vr ever, ’’ said Polly, wiping away 
the present ones as she spoke. “ Yes, 1 have been vexed,” she 
added, kissing the beautiful face bent lovingly toward her own. “ I 
have been vexed, and grieved, and shamed, by something I have 
seen and heard— oh! grieved and shamed more than I can say, 
she added, the color mounting in her face as she spoke; “ and then 
I came in and .found you. Miss Pembury, with all your life before 
you, rich, honored, talk of flinging yourself away because 

you wished so to forget the one trouble of your life. Oh ! after 
what I have just seen, it does seem to me a monstrous and a dread- 
ful thing that girls like you and me — for though you are rich and I 
am poor, we, at least, are equal there — my home has been as safe as. 
yours— should dare to talk, ds we sometimes do, of the troubles 


94 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


that, we think, make our lives so insupportable, while other girls 
grow up without having one chance given them of becoming good 
women; go astray because they have had no chance of going right 
— fall, as it is called, because tliey have never for an hour been be- 
yond the reach of temptation!” 

“ I don’t see what this has to do with you or me,” said Millicent. 
with just a little return of her former iciness. 

“ God forgive you. Miss Pembury, if, as the years go by, and you 
are older and better able to look into things for yourself, you don’t 
see that it has everything to do with you!” said Polly. “ May I 
tell you what I have seen, and what it has made me think? May I 
tell you, that is, without being thought to presume beyond my 
place as your paid companion?” 

“ Do I remind you so often of your place, Pauline?” said Milli- 
cent, her face crimsoning. Then she caught hold of Polly’s hands 
as impulsively as if she had been Polly herself. “ Don’t quarrel 
with me, dear. If I have vexed you in any way, forgive me. And 
now, if you wish, speak on.” 

“ I have seen Fanny Gill,” said Polly; Fanny Gill and her baby.” 

“ She w^as not fit for you to know or to speak to,” said Millicent. 
^‘If you err, Polly, it is that you are sometimes too kind-hearted 
and pitiful toward wrong-doers.” 

1 had to go on some errand in the village, as you know, for Mrs. 
Danvers,” said Polly, without heeding Millicent’s dignified little re- 
buke, “ and as I was coming home I was stopped by a woman, 
looking decent and tidy enough, but with an anxious face. She 
made bold, she told me, to ask me if I would ask Mrs. Danvers or 
you to let her daughter have some port wine. I asked about her 
daughter. She told me she was ill, and she was ordered everything 
that was nourishing; and with her father’s wages, fourteen shillings 
a-week, how was it possible for them to obtain it? “An’ then there’s 
her baby dragging her,” said the mother; and spoke of Fanny’s 
“ misfortune,”— it’s always a misfortune. Well, poor things! they 
had need to be merciful to one another. Then I knew the girl 
must be the one I had seen at your gates. Miss Pembury, the day 
you brought me to this house, which, till to-day, has seemed to me 
a little earthly Paradise. I had heard Mrs. Danvers speak of her as 
of a sinner — not exactly as Christ once spoke of sinners, however — 
and I thought I w'ould see if she w^as in such need as the woman 
said, and if so, ask for help, or give it myself. I am rich enough, 
thanks to you, to indulge in the luxurj^ of a little benevolence. 
W ell, the poor girl is very bad ; her beauty has faded wonderfully, 
even in the little time since we saw her. I was very shocked and 
grieved to see her. But oh! Miss Pembury, her surroundings 
grieved and shocked me more. One room, bare to the rafters, 
poorly furnished, but fairly clean, and three beds in it, such as they 
were, to serve for father, mother, grown up brothers, this girl, her 
baby, and a sister, a year older than Fanny herself. She is lying 
there day and night, and there is no decent privacy, no possibility 
of meeting any of the requirements of illness, and her baby is in her 
arms; and liow wmuld it have been possible, unless by a special 
miracle, that this girl should have escaped the shame that has come 
upon her? Shame! I don’t belie\'« she feels it. How should she? 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS< 


95 


What can she know of purity and womanliness, of modesty or self- 
respect, with such surroundings as she seems to have had from her 
birth? Oh! to look upon such a girl as this, not seventeen, and 
with her nameless child in her arms, and feel that, but for God’s 
favor, we might have been as she is, soulless, shameless, as the ani- 
mals that browse in the fields 1” 

Yes, it is very shocking,” said Millicent, her fair face paling; 
“ but you should not have gone there, Pauline. Such things are 
not for you to meddle with.”^ 

“No; there it is! that seems to be such a pitiful mockery. 
Girls like you and me are not to know the things other girls are 
called on to endure. And yet she is younger than we — little more 
than a child— and has such a pretty baby face. It .was the inno- 
cent, child like prettiness that struck me the first time I saw her.” 

“ Innocent !” said Millicent. 

“ Yes; I can understand the innocence of that look even now — 
even now that I have seen the den she calls her home. She has 
gone wrong because she has had no chance of learning right. She 
has not turned from the light and chosen darkness. The light 
has never been hers to choose.” 

“ Our clergyman is a good man, and I have taught that girl my- 
self in the Sunday School,” said Millicent, with a little austerity. 

“Yes, I know what Sunday School teaching is; but it won’t 
meet such a case as this. Did you ever tell her in plain words to 
be chaste, discreet and modest? and, if you had done so, what a 
wretched mockery it would have been with such a home as hers to 
go to. Just one room where men, maid, matron and little ones live. 
They couldn’t even, as I at first suggested, make some better pro- 
vision by sending the brothers below. Where the floor is not mud 
it is brick, and the damp ooses through, “ an’ would cripple the 
lads afore their time if they slept there,” as the mother said. Crip- 
pled they will be ultimately, with such a floor to their living-room, 
but they are naturally anxious to postpone their fate as long- as may 
be, so it isn’t to be wondered at if even the girl’s death-hour fails 
to teach her how great a sinner she has been, any more than the 
Sunday School lessons saved her from being one.” 

“lam very sony,” said Millicent, “ but I don’t tliinknhe houses 
in Radley are worse than in other parts of Hertfordshire; and I 
still think, Pauline, it would have been better for you to have kept 
away. You can do so little good, and it seems hardly fit that 
you should see or know such things.” 

Polly shuddered. “I shall never forget what I have seen and 
learned to-day. To think of it ! That a girl should grow up to 
womanhood without one chance being given her of learning what 
is good and pure and honest. And here we are ! So delicately 
housed, so daintily fed, with not a sight or sound to offend a single 
sense; and that girl is dying in her shame and sin. Sin, oh! I 
don’t think all the sin lies at the door of Fanny Gill!” 

Millicent walked hastily up and down the room; then she stopped 
short, and facing Polly, said abruptly, — “ I suppose you think it lies 
at mine?” 

“Not yet, God forbid that I should dare to say that, yet,” cried 
Polly. “You have hardly had time to realize your own position. 


96 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


your own responsibilities. But it seems to me the time has come 
now. vOh! Millicent Pembuiy, you asked me to be your friend, to 
stand by you, to help you bear the trouble of your life. Here is a 
way to bear that trouble, to crush it, to forget it as a thing not 
worth regarding when compared to the troubles of those around. 
Here are you, a girl, rich, refined, good, pure; how should j^ou ever 
have been anything else? — and here are these other girls, who have 
not had one chance of goodness given them, living, dying, like 
the brutes that perish, and no man caring for them. "Then the 
more reason that some woman should! And you might be that 
woman! Here is your work. Around you, at your ver}^ gates. 
These are your poor, your people: the work that God has given you 
to do is close to your hand. I’m not religious!” added Polly, pas- 
sionately; “at least I can’t talk religion; but do you know that 
when I came from Fanny Gill’s room to this, and saw you sitting 
with folded hands and troubled face, I thought of the parable of 
the talents, and how much had been given to you. And you would 
fling yourself away upon this Mr. Tilburne just because you don’t 
know what better to do with yourself, when all this work is wait- 
ing ready for your hand.” 

“ He might help me to do it,’^ said Millicent. 

“ I’d be Wre of that before I took him into partnership,”- replied 
Polly. “ He may be a man, better and more unselfish than are 
many of his class, and he may leave you the right to do as you like 
with your owm, which men don’t ahvays do where their wives are 
^concerned. But I’d be very certain on these points first. I’d be 
very sure that he w^as a good and generous man, if I w^ere you, 
who w'ould not make me a worse woman than I should have been 
without Rim. Let him wait a wdiile, till you know more of 
him. I think you’re w'orth the w^aiting for. Miss Pembury,” said 
Polly, drawing up her slender figure, as if proud of her friend not- 
withstanding her fault-finding. 

“ Although the shame of Fanny Gill lies at my door?” said Milli- 
cent gravely. 

“ I did not say that,” replied Polly, quickly. “ But I do say that 
it rests with you that other Fanny Gills on your estate shall at 
least have a possibility of growing up into good women. And I do 
say that, for their sake as well as your own, you ought to be very 
careful that Mr. Tilburne would be worth all the honor and all the 
respect that a wife should give a husband.” 

“ Mr. Tilburne would never come up to your standard, Pauline,” 
said Millicent. 

“ And I should never be satisfied with less, for you,” said Polly. 
^‘No; nor for any one for whom I cared.” 

“ Just give me a little time to think it over, and don’t tell Aunt 
Danvers you have seen Fanny Gill. She w^ould be so shocked. If 
I see into matters for myself, she will be still more shocked. It 
will be a terrible struggle. I feel half afraid when I think of it. I 
know some one wTo could help me, wTo has talked to me upon such 
things before now, but not so fiercely as you have done; but I don’t 
know when I shall be brave enough to go to her.” 

“ Brave enough?” 

*** Yes; it is Mrs. Gordon.” 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


97 


CHAPTER XIX. 

HORACE GORDON’S MOTHER. 

Millicent had said that she felt hardly brave enough to meet 
the mother of her lover. In truth, the two women had kept apart 
from each other since the sin of Horace Gordon had come between 
them. Mrs. Gordon had felt, as she said, ashamed to meet the eyes 
of the girl her son had so wronged; and, to Millicent it had seemed 
as if to see her would re-open all the old wounds which time seemed, 
at least, beginning to deaden. But she resolved that she would go to 
Mrs. Gordon now. If she was to do anything better with her life 
than spend it in useless repinings and vain regrets, or what, to Polly; 
seemed even worse, contract a sheerly conventional marriage, just 
for the sake of being a wife, Mrs. Gordon could help her. 

For Mrs. Gordon was a woman who had made her mark in her 
little world. She could do things with impunity which, in that 
world, very few would liave ventured to do; and this without 
incurring even any suspicion of eccentricity or oddity. On the 
contrary, even the most Conservative of Hertfordshire s’quires, those 
most wedded to old usages ancLcustoms, would call Mrs; Gordon a 
sensible woman — “By Jove! sir, the most sensible woman I ever 
knew in my life,” — and yet the sensible woman countenanced the 
very innovations that every Hertfordshire squire thought most prej- 
udicial to the existing state of things; and, in her own parish, had, 
with the help of the rector, whom she had enlisted on her side, 
effected little less than a social revolution. 

But whatever Mrs. Gordon did she did quietly, and never flew • 
needlessly in the face of her world. And through conforming to 
the ways of the world in small matters, one is often allowed to take 
one’s own unchecked in great. And she had held her own so care- 
fully, in such trying circumstances, that it had begun to De iiiuugiii 
that everything she did was safest, wisest, discreetest, best. S^he 
had been the neglected wife of a very gay and very bad husband, 
and had borne her sorrows with a dignified reticence that, if it 
seemed to disdain sympathy, at least commanded respect. Then, 
when she became a widow, quite young and handsome enough to 
marry again, she had kept her suitors at so safe a distance without 
offending any, and let it be seen that she was living chiefly for the 
sake of her son, that she was considered as much a model mother as 
she had been a model wife. When her son “ went wrong,” nobody 
blamed Mrs. Gordon; nobody said, as is so often said in similar 
cases, that the home-training was responsible for his misconduct, 
that he had been either spoiled too little or indulged too much, and, 
that his mother had only herself to tlnink for her son having become 
an evil-doer. 

No; Mrs. Gordon still commanded all sympathy and respect; 
and even the fact that, during her son’s minority, she contrived, 
while nursing the estates round, to repair the best of the cottages on 
the estate, to rebuild the worst, and to support the schools liberally, 

4 


98 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


was only set down as another proof of her good management ; that 
with such limited means she should be able to do such things, was 
a sufficient proof of her sound sense in doing them. Those who 
wrould have let their own tenants herd like swine in pigstyes, only 
approved Mrs. Gordon’s economy in being able, with such slender 
resources, to do so well by hers. 

Even Mrs. Danvers looked up to Mrs. Gordon. Though that 
lady was suspected of knowing very much more of works political^ 
literary, and scientific than Mrs. Danvers thought it expedient that 
most women should know, she had not a word of censure for Mrs. 
Gordon. She was privileged to take her own path and follow it.. 
Besides, Mrs. Danvers alwaj^s follow^ed the world, and, as the 
world said Mrs. Gordon was a sensible woman, wdio could do no 
wrong, Mrs. Danvers thought it only due to herself to echo its opin- 
ion. 

Slowdy wakening to the consciousness that she had not to live for 
herself alone, — that there was something more required of her than 
to sit down and moan over her own hurt, or to seek to deaden her 
consciousness of it by means as unworthy and as vile as an unloving 
marriage would be, — Millicent resolved to seek Mrs. Gordon. “ She 
will help me, if any one can,” she said to Polly; “and she was 
always very kind.. I don’t think I have done right in staying away 
so long.” 

The next day Millicent informed Mrs. Danvers of her intention of 
driving over to the Holmes that day. As a rule, Mrs. Danvers 
accompanied her niece on visits in the neighborhood, when well 
enough; when she was not well enough, Milicent stayed at home. 
But she had been so much in the habit of going to the Holmes by 
herself, that her doing so now seemed only a resumption of her 
former habit, and Mrs. Danvers, who had a cold, and felt disposed 
to nurse it, said, — “ Quite right. I think you should have gone 
sooner. 1 daresay Mrs. Gordon expected you. There will be a lit- 
tle awkwardness at first, but it will soon pass over. You should 
onll! after All that lias passed, it will be a very proper attention on 
your part.” 

Mrs. Gordon was alone when Millicent came. She was a tall 
woman, with a good presence, and a face that was still handsome, 
though she had seen her fiftieth autumn, and she was carefully 
dressed in a gray merino, fashionably made, and the little cap she 
wore and the accessories of her dress were all good and well- 
chosen. It is doubtful whether Mrs. Gordon would have been 
supposed to know so much more than other women knew, and to 
do things that few squires, still less squiresses, would do, and all 
without the slightest imputation on her good sense, if it had not 
been that in her dress, and in all such minor matters, she was care- 
ful to observe the conventionalities. She had dark luxuriant hair, 
but it had grown very gray of late, and her lips were compressed 
as if with habitual pain, and Millicent saw at a glance that she had 
aged very much since she had last seen her. Trouble had told 
upon her. 

She had been sitting in a small apartment which, from the time 
she first came to the Holmes, had been looked upon as peculiarly 
her own. There was a writing-table, or secretaire, in it with many 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


99 ^ 


drawers, and in some of these she had been looking — sorting and 
arranging papers, and going over old memorials of the past: her 
son’s letters, from the time he wrote, in a round, sclioolboy hand, a 
request for a cake or a hamper of apples, to the flowing lines and 
more polished phrases of later years. How she had loved her boy ! 
He had been just her all, for she had been so doubly widowed. 
Her husband had been lost to her in his life, and his death had 
brought nothing but a sense of reUef — of thankfulness that she. was 
free from the degrading thralldom of such a marriage as liers. But 
the boy seemed her compensation. He had been so sweet and win- 
ning, and tender, and kind — all that grave, reticent women like 
herself, with a touch ,of austerity at the root of the character, love 
best in the men they have to do with. And now he had gone out 
of her life in such a sort that she could envy mothers whose sons 
had only died, and wonder sometimes how these could give them- 
selves up to grief when they had nothing but death to w^eep for. 

Her face grew 5^et a little paler when she looked on Millicent; 
then she rose, and, stepping forward, drew the girl into her arms, 
and kissed her fondly. She had taken Millicent to her heart as a 
daughter; for Millicent had been a girl to be loved before this 
trouble had come upon her and embittered her sweetness, and 
turned her gentleness into feebleness; but since the trouble hnd 
come, Mrs. Gordon had shrunk from seeing her whom her son had 
so injured. 

“This is very good of you, my dear,” she said. “It is more 
than T dared hope for.” 

“ Why did you not come to me, mamma?” said Millicent. She 
had acquired the habit of calling Mrs. Gordon by that name during 
her engagement, and it came back to her lips instinctively now. 
To the morherless girl it had been very sweet and very easy to love 
the mother of her lover as if she were her own. 

“I could not come, Millicent,” said the elder lady, her face dark- 
ening; “ I coul^ not come,” she repeated, and in a lower tone, “ for 
very shame.” 

“Mamma, mamma!” Millicent sobbed, “don’t let that come 
between us. Can’t you and I be as we were?” 

“ If you will let it be so, my dear, I shall be only too glad,” was 
the answer. “ Now tell me about yourself. I have heard that you 
have been ill, and in London. How long have you been back? 
How are you now? Have the London doctors done you good? Let 
me hear everything.” 

“ Yes, mamma.” Millicent sat down, obediently as a child, and, 
as Mrs. Gordon had desired, proceeded to tell her how things had 
been of late. “ I shall tell you everything,” she said; “ for I w\ant 
you to help me in many ways. And one thing, first of all — I have 
seen Mm'' 

“Him who was my son — Horace Gordon?” 

“ Don’t ^ay loas, mamma — is'' cried Millicent impetuously. 

“ Well, I suppose, after all, mothers can’t tear their children 
out of their very hearts. If he were ill, I suppose I should go and 
nurse him — if in serious trouble, try and help him; but he can 
never be as he was, Millicent.’’ 


100 


SOME OF OUE OIliLS. 


*‘He asked me to forget the past, and let things be as they had 
been,” said Millicent, softly. 

“He is a thorough man,” said the mother, her lip curling; 
“tliinks that women were born only to suffer, and to kiss the hand 
that smites them. Well, Millicent?” and there was that in her eye& 
which told Millicent that if she had yielded to Horace Gordon’s suit, 
his mother would have had but little pity for her weakness. 

“ Well, I — I — hesitated. Oh, mamma, I did so love him!” The 
words came with a cry, as if the girl had been sharply hurt. “I 
think I should have yielded,” she went on tremulously, “ but for 
the advice of one whom I asked to help me because she was a girl 
like myself, and so I thought could feel for me. Thanks to her, I 
did not yield. I wrote to him that what he asked could not be, 
and that all w^as at anbnd between us.” 

“I am glad of it,” said the mother, gravely. “After what ha& 
been, Millicent, if you had stooped to my son, I doubt if I could 
ever have loved you again as my daughter.” 

“ You think 1 did right?” asked Slillicent, anxiously. “Some- 
times it has seemed to me as if I had been too hard: as if I might 
have helped him — saved him — if I had decided differently.” 

“ God forbid that you should make such a sacrifice for the sake 
of such a sinner! He was meaner than I thought,” added Mrs. Gor- 
don, her face crimsoning, “ or he w^ould not have asked you. 
The partner of his sin seems to me the only possible partner of his 
life.” 

She would not have broken bread with that woman, or have 
slept under the same roof with htv for a night ; she loathed her as a 
sinner, wdio, if she had not lured her son to his destruction, had, at 
least, been only too ready to walk hand in hand with him to their 
mutual ruin. But even to her she would mete out justice. . For her 
son’s sake, this wretched creature had lost home, and friends, and 
good repute, and what poor amends it was possible for him to make 
he should render. 

“ That is what Pauline Brooke has told me,” said Millicent. 
“ But oh, mamma, it was so hard to give him up!” 

“ Very hard,” said the other, in the same quiet, unvarying tone 
in which she had hitherto spoken. “ I should know a little more 
about that than you, Millicent. You may have another love, but I 
shall never have another son.” 

“ Some one has wanted to be that other,” said Millicent, after a 
pause. 

“ Yes, I suppose so. That is very likely. I hope that this time 
your choice will be a worthy one, Millicent.” 

“ I don’t know that as yet I have chosen at all,” said Millicent. 
“ I shall never love as 1 loved Horace.” 

“Ho, it is a woful waste, poor child; but he has had the best of 
your life. But if you have chosen a good man, Millicent, and can 
respect and honor him him with all your heart, love may come in 
time. And I should so like to see you happy,” she added, with a 
pitiful yearning in her voice. 

“1 never looked at the thing in that light,” said Millicent. “ It 
is Mr. Tilburne who has asked me. I never asked myself whether I 
felt for him all you say i should feel. He is well enough, and you 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


101 

know what Aunt Danvers is, and how she believes in marriage as the 
chief end of a woman’s existence. If I take Mr. Tilburne, it will be 
partly because she advises me to do it ; partly because, if 1 marry, 
it may as well be him as any oth^” 

“ And you mean to marry bjjetCuse you don’t know what better tO' 
do with yourself, — is that it,d\Iillicent?” ‘ 

“I suppose S'),” wearily. “A girl must marry at onetime or 
another.” 

“ I don’t see the necessity — ” almost in Polly’s words. “ That is, 
if you do not see any one for whom you can feel differently to what 
you do for Mr. Tilburne. Do you know, Millicent, that people 
sometimes wonder at my patience— the patience, as they call it, with 
which I bore the hardships and indignities of my married life. I 
dare say you may have heard something of it. Patience! they might 
better call it penitence! When I was a girl I committed two great 
blunders. I loved a man who was not worthy any woman’s love ; and 
when I found that things were so, I made a greater, and married a 
man still more unworthy, and whom I did not love at all. Most 
people, women especially, were of your Aunt Danvers’s opinion, at 
that time of day, that if a girl did not marry, she had made a fail- 
ure of her life. Well, I did not want to make a failure of mine, 
and Mr. Gordon came in my way, and I took him, just as you are 
thinking of taking Mr. Tilburne, because I did not know what 
better to do with myself. Well, there is no use in going over those 
miserable years; there is no use in telling you the penalty I had to 
pay for that second blunder of mine. I had sense enough to aacept 
my punishment meekly, and to make the best of the life I had made 
for myself. If my liusband had sinned against me, I had sinned 
against him, and against myself too. I had wronged myselL more 
than he could ever wrong me. If I could not have been a happy 
woman, I might, at least, have been a good, pure, self-sufficing one. 
And goodness is very hard, and purity, in the right sense of the 
word, impossible, where a woman has married unworthily. The 
horror of those years! The degradation and the shame of the union 
with a man of low taste and debased mind ! The impossibility of 
preserving one’s self-respect, of not suffering some contamination 
from the constant contact with such a being! I don’t say that your 
Mr. Tilburne is all this, Milly; but, mind you, ready as I was, in 
the ennUi and the disappointment that hourly beset me, to marry, I 
did not think that Mr. Gordon was what I afterward found him. 
I married upon trust, took my husband blindly, and hadn’t the 
excuse of love to plead for my blindness. Don’t you do as I did, 
and marry upon trust, too.” 

Mrs. Gordon paused, and seemed, for a moment, lost in painful 
thought. It was a rare thing to hear her speak of her husband — 
she never did so if she could help* it; she seemed to strive, as far as 
it was possible, to put him out of her remembrance. After a vdiile 
she went on in a low tone. Sometimes it seemed as if the pain that 
in other women would vent itself in tears and sobs, took, with her, 
the form of compression and reticence. Her words now seemed to 
come out against her will. 

“ A woman should remember that when she marries she. has not 
only herself to think of, but those as yet unborn. When my son 


102 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


proved himself a double liar,— when he wronged you, so innocent, 
and that other woman, so guilty, — it seemed as if it only wanted 
that to complete the measure of my punishment. He was his father’s 
son in all he did! And I was only justly punished for ever having 
stopped to bear a son to such a father! It was then I felt my degra- 
dation to the uttermost. It was then I felt what I had become when 
I linked myself to a man of whom I knew so little, and for whom 
I felt nothing but that careless, shallow liking which I could have 
felt as easily for any other. Oh, Millicent! you don’t know how I 
have shrunk from*^ meeting your eyes, because I felt ashamed of 
being the mother of the man who has wrOnged you!” 

Mrs. Gordon turned her face away, and Millicent knew that it 
was to hide her tears. She was a woman who found it as hard to 
weep as if she were a man. Millicent drew her hand in hers, and 
pressed it softly. 

Mamma, don^’t let any thought of that ever come between us.” 

Presently Mrs. Gordon turned to her with a calm, almost cheer-' 
ful face. 

“1 have said my say, Milly; think matters over by .yourself. 
Now let us talk of something else.” 

“Yes, indeed, there is something else I want to talk oyer with 
you,” said Millicent j “something besides Mr. Tilburne. It seems 
to me that things in Kadley are not quite as they should be. I 
suppose Aunt Danvers has let Hammond have his own way, and I 
daresay he has thought of ray interests; but then that is not every- 
thing — the cottages are not what they should be, I’m afraid.” 

“I don’t think they are,” said Mrs. Gordon, dryly. “The 
cottages in Hadley are about as bad as an}^ in Hertfordshire, Milly, 
and that is saying a greaft. deal.” 

“But what am I to do, mamma?” cried Millicent, almost fret- 
fully. Sonetimes, when she felt her weakness most, she chafed 
against it, and felt inclined to be angry with other people, as if the 
fault were theirs. “ How am I to help it? Some of the things are 
so shocking, even for a lady to speak about, and Aunt Danvers will 
be so horrified when she thinks of my meddling with them.” 

“Yes, I know Mrs. "Danvers,” said Mrs. Gordon, with a faint 
smile; “ and there is no doubt that she will be scandalized if you 
look into these things for yourself, for, indeed, the}^ are not pleas- 
ant things for women to meddle with ; but think what they must be 
for women to endure! If you had become my son’s wife, Milly, I 
should have asked you to let me lend a helping hand in Radley.” 

“ Oh, I wish you would lend it now!” cried Millicent. “ Some 
of the things are so shocking, so- horrible, that I hear of, and I 
don’t know which way to turn or how to help them.” 

“ AYhat has brought such matters before you so suddenly?” 
asked Mrs. Gordon. “ You always appeared to me in as enviable a 
state of young-lady ignorance as even Mrs. Danvers could wish 
you to be.” 

“ It was Pauline Brooke, and what she told me of Fanny Gill — 
Fanny Gill and her child, who. knows no father,” said Millicent, 
flushing.. “ Oh, mamma! when I think of this wretched girl, and 
the wa 5 ^ in which she and others are huddled and herded together 
at the very gates of my own home, it seems as if their shame was 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


lOS 


mine — as if I, living in luxury and wealth, were answerable for all 
their degradation and misery. They are my people, and I have let 
them perish oody and soul!’’ And Millicent buried her face in her 
hands, and cried remorsefully. 

^^Tour soul has woke, at least,” said Mrs.. Gordon, looking at her 
curiously. “I should like to see this Miss Brooke,” she said. “ If 
its young queen means to make of Radley a place fit for Christiana 
to live in, it seems to me as if Miss Brooke might do for her Prime 
Minister.” 

“ She is the dearest, bravest, strongest little thing,” cried Milli- 
cent. “ Not strong-minded, mamma — strong in heart and soul,, 
like you. 1 think I could do something with her by my side, and 
you for help and counselor; but there is Aunt Danvers.” 

“ And decorum, which prohibits a young lady looking too closely 
into foul and ugly things. And there is a great deal that is very 
unpleasantly practical to be encountered in setting a village to 
rights. But I will face the worst for you, Milly. I believe your 
Aunt Danvers thinks I am one of those who can do no wrong, and I 
will go into matters myself with Mr. Hammond — and suppose we- 
let Mr. Tilburne stand over for the present, Milly. Perhaps by the 
time Radley is renovated, we shall find we can do very well without 
him.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

AMANDA’S PROMOTION. 

A LITTLE time after Amanda had come to take care of her uncle,. 
Mr. Sampson began to think he had made money enough. The 
idea had never occurred to him before. He had gone every day to 
his place of business, and come home every night a richer man thau 
he had been in the morning, without once asking himself why, 
when his annual income apart from that business was so much more 
than he cared to spend, he should go on increasing it. He never 
would have asked himself that question if his wife had lived. He 
would have gone on eating and drinking of the best ; adding thou- 
sand to thousand; content to lead his unpretending life of solid, 
luxurious comfort, if Mrs. Sampson had not left her post as mistress 
of his house and Amanda entered on it. 

Mr. Sampson believed in Amanda as the simplest and most guile- 
less of women. So did most men. And she was not clever; she 
never read a book worth reading; and she could not have given an 
intelligent opinion of any subject of the day. But she was clever 
in her own way; that is, she had plenty of the smaller change of 
cunning, which served her purpose as well, or better, than would 
the higher coinage of the brain. And Amanda had a great deal of 
quiet, persistent obstinacy. After all, what is there more invincible 
than a fool ! And Amanda had resolved, as soon as she entered her 
uncle’s house, that she would let him have no rest in it till he left it 
for one in a more aristocratic situation. But she never told him 
that, on the contrary, she professed to be charmed with the house 
and its surroundings. She liked the shops ; there was really no 
need, with such good linen-drapers, to go to the West End, only. 


104 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS, 


of course, now and then a lady wanted things which only Howeh 
& James or Swan & Edgar could supply. And the railway was so 
convenient, and the omnibus would have been so handy, only that 
her dear uncle was good enough to let her have a carriage. And if 
the air was rather close after the country, and the gas-works 
smelled, and the odor of the different factories would come in at 
the windows, she supposed that people must expect such things who 
lived in town. Did her uncle call this almost country? Well, so it 
was, only a great deal livelier and pleasanter. But did not her 
uncle think that the air from the marshes was rather damp? She 
liked a damp air herself; indeed, any air agreed with her. She was 
so tough, she never ailed anything. Still she fancied that damp air 
had something to do with dear uncle’s rheumatism, and the next 
time Mr. Sampson felt a little ache in his bones, he thought it was a 
great one, and wondered it had never occurred to him, how damp 
the air was from the marshes, before. 

If Mr. Sampson’s head ached, it was caused by the smell of the 
gas-works; and, thanks to Amanda’s petting and pitying, and 
anxious looks, he was led to fancy it very often ached now. Before 
long, without knowing how he had arrived at the conclusion, he 
was convinced that Hackney disagreed with him, and began to en- 
tertain ideas of rhoving to a more salubrious quarter. 

But where should he go? Amanda had heard that Kensington 
was mild and dry, and the Gardens would be so heavenly for her 
dear uncle when his day’s work was over, or on Sundays. Or 
Bayswater, — some said there was no air like Bayswater ; what did 
dear uncle think of that? But dear uncle did not think that either 
Bayswater or Kensington would do at all. If the former had been 
what it was when he was a boy, and if in some leafy lane he could 
have found a Queen Anne mansion like the one he was now living 
in, he would have been content enough. But he detested the streets 
and squares of stuccoed palaces that had sprung up where, such a 
little time back, cottages nestled under trees, or roomy red-brick 
mansions were embowered in their gardens. He thought he might 
meet with something like what he wanted at Kew or Hammer- 
smith, or possibly at Fulham; and Amanda, who would almost as 
soon have remained as she was, due East, as have gone so far West, 
was positive that all these were damp and unwholesome, misty and 
foggy, on account of their proximity to the river. Dear uncle’s 
cough would be worse than ever if he ventured into any of these 
unhealthy localities. 

Just when Mr. Sampson was most puzzled how to please his 
niece and himself at the same time, — or rather, how to select a 
liouse that would meet her anxious requirements about his health, — 
he became unexpectedly the master of one. Some years back he 
had, by the advice of his solicitor (an old friend and neighbor of 
his, who had a very snug City practice, dined every year with each 
successive Lord Mayor, and gave capital dinners himself to his 
clients), invested some spare thousands in a mortgage on the house 
and estate of a little Hertfordshire squire. Of late years there had 
been great difficulty in obtaining the interest, and at last the pay- 
ments failed utterly, the squire went to the Continent — where was 
not exactly known, but he had disappeared from the eyes of men 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 105 ' 

— and then, the mortgage having been foreclosed, Mr. Sampson 
found himself a landed proprietor. 

If this had happened in Mrs. Sampson^s lifetime, her husband 
would have directed his solicitor to dispose of the property to the- 
best advantage; but now it seemed as if the acquisition of this old 
mansion and the adjacent demesne was a special interposition of 
Providence in his favor. Why should he not occupy the house 
himself? Why not settle down at once to a country life, and rest 
for the remainder of his days? It would be the best thing possible 
for his health; even Amanda herself must see that, though he was 
a little afraid that she would find the country rather dull. 

Amanda’s heart sank within her when her uncle first broached 
the subject to her. Give up London and all its glories, the delights 
she had so looked forward to of appearing at the Opera, or in Rot- 
ten Row, and be buried alive in 'an old country house forty miles 
from town! That was her first feeling; her next was that a coun- 
try life, in a large country house of good standing, and with all the 
appointments of a wealthy household, was' a very different thing^ 
•from life in a farm-house. From that farm-house in which her 
early youth had been spent, Amanda had seen from afar the 
“ County.” She had heard with envious ears of race and hunting 
balls, from which she had been shut out, — she had been conde- 
scended to by the squire’s daughters, and mildly patronized by his 
wife, till she had hated them as much as her weak little nature 
would suffer her to hate anything. And now she might be as good 
as a squire’s wife cr daughter herself! The County would cer- 
tainly call at sncli a hoase as her uncle described Clayfield Hall to 
be, and she might form a circle in Hertfordshire of a better class than 
any of his City friends. After all, if she went to the West of Lon- 
don, she might be a long time forming desirable acquaintances 
there. “One’s next-door neighbors are afraid of being sociable 
here,” thought Amanda; “ and what would be the use of driving 
in the Park, or going to the play, and not meeting a soul that one 
knows? How, if one gets on well with the “ County,” it 'may be 
useful in the way of introductions. Fashionable people all seem to 
know one another; and when one does come to town, for I don’t 
fancy stopping in Hertfordshire all the year through, one may meet 
with acquaintances that one’s made there. And to be of the 
‘ County ’ one’s self, and live at ‘ the House,’ and sit in the great pew 
at church, and have every one bobbing and courtesying when one 
comes out, and looking at one’s bonnet, and wondering what one’s; 
dress cost — let one have what one may, there’s sure to be somebody 
else with a new, in London, bonnet or dress.” 

“I shall give you a new open carriage if we go to Hertfordshire, 
Amanda,” said Uncle Sampson, by way of propitiation; “ and wa 
shah go to the seaside just the same as if we were still living ia 
town.” 

“ Thank you, uncle. I don’t care for the carriage myself. I’ve 
never been used to one, you know,” said Amanda, wdth pretty 
humility; “ but I’m sure the more you are out in the open air the 
better, and a fortnight at Brighton in November would do you so 
much good. I think it’s November that they say is such a very 
healthy month at Brighton?’' 


106 


SOME OF OUF GIELS. 

I don’t know about that, but I believe it is a very lively one,” 
said Uncle Sampson; “but that will suit us both, Amanda. I 
can look at the sea, and you can look at the shops, and then we’ll 
come back to our town house, and keep our Christmas. You’ll 
have to be a sort of Lady Bountiful — give away blankets and petti- 
coats to the old women, and help the parson with his coal-club and 
his school. Why, it’ll be like old times coming back again, when I 
was a boy — only we hadn’t much to do with the charities, for we 
were too poor to give, and not poor enough to take. Things come 
round, Mandie — things come round in this world,” said Uncle 
Sampson, with a comfortable, rich unctuous chuckle, and rolling 
his loose cash over 'in his pocket; “things come round — things 
come round,” he repeated. 

“I’m sure. Uncle Sampson, you deserve that everything that’s 
good should come round to you,” said Amanda; “but I don’t 
think, uncle, that, knowing so many people as 3^ou do in town, and 
with that cough of yours, — which I’m sure will want the best of 
advice to keep under, and country doctors, we know, are not 
always to be relied on, — that you ought quite to bury yourself in 
the country. If you were to come up for a month or six weeks — 
say in June — I always think there ain’t half the blacks about in 
London in June that there are at other times, and the air seems so 
nice and fresh just then. And then you should put yourself under 
one of these great London doctors, and he would make you all right 
for the twelvemonth — and it needn’t be so expensive ; I should think 
we should get lodgings somewhere at the West — for one mustn’t be 
too far from the doctors — for thirty shillings or so a- week.” 

“ Oh, if we come to London, either for the doctors or to give you 
a peep at the fine folks, we needn’t look at things so close as that, 
Mandie,” said Uncle Sampson, who was in high good humor that 
his niece "was so easy to settle down in the country. “A small fur- 
nished house for a few weeks near one of the parks won’t ruin me, 
I daresay.” 

Then Amanda felt satisfied with herself and her prospects. A 
country house in Hertfordshire, with “the County ” on visiting 
terms, November at Brighton, and June in London, truly these 
were things to make her rejoice in her powers of management. 
How she would have liked to have Polly near her that she might 
dilate upon them to her! — Polly, who was always so provokingly 
honest and plain-spoken. “Just as if oviQ could through the 
world without telling a fib now and then,” said Amanda to herself, 
“ if only for peace and quietness’ sake; but Polly never could be 
brought to look at things in a rational light.” 

Then she remembered that Radley, where Polly was located, was 
, only five miles from Cla^^field. P0II3" had written to her twice 
‘ since her arrival there, having an idea that some attention w^as due 
to her as her father’s widow, “ though I daresay Amanda has pretty 
well forgotten me by this time,” thought Polly. But Amanda had 
never answered these letters. She w^as thoroughly lazy, and never 
did anything that, by any possibility, she could get any one else to 
do for her; and as she could not very well employ either the cook 
or the upper housemaid, clever in her wa}'^ as each of these domes- 


SOME or OUR GIRLS. 107 

tics was, to answer her letters, both Polly’s and those of her own 
sisters remained unanswered. 

“ Besides,” as Amanda said, ‘^what was the use of keeping in 
with Polly? She wasn’t much better than a lady’s-maid — com- 
panion, indeed — it comes to pretty much the same thing — and she 
had no right to expect her friends to look after her if she lowered 
herself by accepting such a situation.” 

But Amanda, though as great an egotist as Mrs. Danvers, was 
not half so clever or far-sighted a one. Mrs. Danvers made a point 
of keeping in with everybody. It was impossible to tell when the 
most unlikely people might be of service, and a few civil words 
and a postage-stamp went such a long way and cost so little. Her 
correspondence was large, but so was her circle; and if her niece’s 
house had been closed to her, she might have visited almost to the 
end of her natural life amongst the relatives of her several hus- 
bands. Amanda began to think she had made a blunder in slight- 
ing Polly, but she had no false shame in hastening to retrieve it. 

“ If this Miss Pembury that’s taken her up is really partial to her, 
she may do a good deal for me on Polly’s account. It’s an old 
place, by wdiat Polly said of it, and the Pemburys have been 
there for ages. No doubt anybody that is anybody for twenty- 
miles visits "at the Hall. I’ll write to Polly, telling her I haven’t 
had time to do it before, and when we are a bit settled, and I’ve 
got the new^ carriage. I’ll call on her. Won’t Polly open her eyes 
to think of my being a c(funty lady ! T only hope she’ll never let 
any one know her father kept a chemist’s shop. If she’ll only pass 
him off for a doctor, 1 sha’n’t hurt through having married him. 
But Polly never could be brought to look at things in a rational 
light.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

POLLY MEETS “THE DOCTOR” AGAIN. 

Mrs. Gordon was again alone in her usual sitting-room; but it 
was some weeks since Millicent had paid her visit there and made 
confession and asked help, and the spring w'as coming in fast, the 
snowdrops had given way to the crocuses, which were making the 
borders of the Holmes gardens gay wuth purple and gold. The 
day was clear and bright; there was a faint, tender breath of sum- 
mer in the air; one of those sweet spring days to rejoice the heart 
of any one for whom all was not henceforth to be clad in gray and 
sober tints. 

Mrs. Gordan had her writing-table drawn by the window, and she 
was looking out on the garden, bathed in the soft spring sunshine, 
as if even tc her it brought a little gladness. Since she and Mil- 
licent had again been brought in contact, things had ‘seemed less 
hard to her; there was a new interest, or rather the old one had 
awoke again. Millicent had crept back to her place in her heart; 
and then the task of helping her in her new work had been one to 
call out all Mrs. Gordon’s energies. There had been Mrs. Danvers 
to soothe and propitiate, but that had not been so very difficult a 
task, for in Mrs. Danvers’s eyes Mrs. Gordon could do no wrong. 


108 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS, 


Every one said she was so sensible a woman, and had behaved so 
admirably in all the trying' circumstances of her life, and Mi*s. Dan- 
vers alwa3^s adopted the general opinion as her own. And then 
Mr. Gordon was so well connected, it was impossible that a lady 
with so many relations in the peerage could do anything very 
wrong; and therefore Mrs. Danvers had been induced not to throw 
many difficulties in the way when Millicent began to look after her 
people herself. 

“Everybody was doing it now,’’ Mrs. Gordon said quietly. 
“Everybody that went with the times, at least, and it would never 
do for Millicent, in her position, to be behind the world; and so 
much freedom of thought and of action was allowed to ladies, even 
young ones, that there was nothing in the least outre in the line of 
conduct Millicent intended to adopt.’' 

Mrs. Danvers felt that the world had altered since she was young, 
but then she had always followed the stream, and it was only right 
that Millicent should do so now. There were difficulties with Ham- 
mond. He was not a bad man ; but he was conservative in his 
views, and did not approve of throwing away his young lady’s 
money on improvements, for which, he said, nobody w’ould be the 
better. The people had done very well hitherto, and what was the 
use of spoiling them? 

“ You must humor Hammond a little; but let him see that you 
mean to have your own way,” said Mrs. Gordon, “ and he will let 
you have it in the long run.” ' 

It was not pleasant work for Millicent. A young lady may easily 
find more congenial employment than reforming the sanitary regu- 
lations of a village. If it had only been a question of clean blinds 
and flowerpots in the windows, and tidy front gardens, her task 
would have been much easier, and there would have been a great 
deal more to show for the trouble and money expended. And her 
people themselves were thankless and careless, and that disheart- 
ened Millicent the most; they might surely be thankful to her for 
undertaking all this wretched, distasteful work. They might know 
that it could never be for her own pleasure that she meddled with 
drainage and pigsties, with pulling down old cottages and building 
new ones, and adding extra bedrooms where circumstances permit- 
ted, and setting her veto against lodgers being taken into such bed- 
rooms. Mrs. Danvers took the matter as philosophically as she 
always did the troubles of other people. “ It was the way of the 
lower class; it was folly to expect gratitude from them.” Mrs. 
Gordon, who thought the lower class were pretty well of the same 
flesh and blood as the higher, and who had gone through the same 
ordeal herself, told Millicent to be patient. 

“ These people have to be educated into the decency that to us, 
with the surroundings we have had from birth, seems a born in- 
stinct; and it is very late in the day, remember, for some of them 
to acquire a new accomplishment. As to the drainage question, and 
other matters connected therewith, you can’t wonder at their think- 
ing you carry matters with a needlessly high hand, when they have 
been led to ascribe every attack of fever or cholera in their homes 
to a visitation of Providence, instead of to the open sewer, called 
a ditch, which every summer but this has been filling all Radley 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 109 

with its fragrance; or to the other nuisances they have let accumu- 
late under their very cottage windows.’' 

Polly took a very lofty view of the matter, but it cheered Milli- 
cent as much as Mrs. Gordon’s more practical one. ‘‘You are do- 
ing right, let what will come of it, and I think that feeling is 
reward enough, even if you never have any other.” 

As to Mr. Tilburne, he heard of Millicent’s doings, and did not 
know whether to admire or disapprove of them; but, on the whole, 
felt that it was just as well she had, after due consideration, said 
“ no ” to his offer, and made up his mind not to repeat it. Such 
fancies looked singular, and were certainly not economical; and 
then he very prudently married a young lady whose milliner’s bills, 
in the first twelvemonth, came to as much as Millicent’s cottages 
cost her from first to last. 

Mrs. Gordon was looking now over some plans and estimates of 
certain alterations in the village schoolroom which Millicent had 
submitted to her; but her heart was not altogether in her work, to 
judge by her eyes, which were wandering away over the garden 
outside. It was an old-fashioned garden, and Mrs. Gordon had kept 
it so. Full of old-world flowers, with names whose sound is poetry; 
and this garden had been her great delight and resource in the 
troubles of her married life and the privations of the earlier days of 
her widowhood. She had worked in it with her own hands, tak- 
ing pride in the flowers she had reared when it had seemed as if she 
could never more take pride in anything. But even that delight in 
her garden her son had turned to bitterness. She had^of late years 
studied Millicent’s likings in its arrangements. There were roses 
she had had planted because Millicent had admired them, and. a 
whole lawn had been given up to the bedding plan to please Milli- 
cent. 

She would never walk round that garden as its mistress now, 
but instead, sooner or later, that woman who had led her son to 
ruin would flaunt in her place, and the Holmes would be dishon- 
ored by its: next mistress as it had been by its last master. To 
think how she had striven and spared to keep those gardens bright 
and trim, and all that a dishonored woman might reign in them. 

The door was opened, and the footman announced Mr. Tynsdell; 
and Mrs. Gordon’s face brightened up as she advanced to meet him. 
“ I didn’t expect to see you so soop,” she said, and the dark shadow 
that now, whenever her face was at rest, dwelt on it passed away 
for the moment. “ I thought you would not be able to leave your 
patients so easily.” 

Gordon Tynsdell shook his head with comic gravity. “The 
patients won’t come, and 1 am tired of waiting for them. I think I 
shall throw up housekeeping, and my housekeeper too — that is, if 
she will let me — and look for another ship.” 

“ I’m not sorry to hear it — at least, not sorry that you have not 
succeeded in establishing a practice in London. I did not care to tell 
you more when I wrote than that I wanted to see you at your earliest 
leisure, for before I made you the proposal I am now about to make, 
I wanted to see how things were with you; and as they are not al- 
together so flourishing as you expected perhaps you will listen to 
it more favorably. What do you say to becoming a country doc- 


110 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


tor, and settling down here at once? The one medical man, who 
has attended everybody for miles round, is about to retire. I don’t 
say he has made his fortune, but he has had such an addition to it 
left him that he is able to give up practice. I should like to see 
you in his place. His house was in Clayfield, the most populous of 
the villages about here ; and you could buy the lease of that and 
the furniture (which will do for a bachelor) and the practice for a 
few hundreds; and if you haven’t got them,” she went on hur- 
riedly, let me lend them to you. I want you near me, Gordon.” 

She laid her hand on his as she spoke, and looked on him almost 
beseechingly. It was as if she were asking him to be her son in 
the place of the one she had lost; he always seemed so lost to her; 
there was something so much wider than the grave between them. 

“ I should like it well enough,” said Gordon Tynsdell, with a lit- 
tle hesitation, “ but I am already so much indebted to you — and I 
don’t see — ” 

“ You don’t see how you’ll repay me,” she said; that would be 
a very easy thing in a few years. The practice isn’t large, but it’s 
good, and I think might be extended. Clayfield is not a very lively 
spot, but it’s pleasanter than the east of London ; and — and — if you 
only wouldn’t think of the money — I am rich now,” she said, bit- 
terly; now that I have no one to get money together for, my in- 
come accumulates. I took it all, as you know, to meet the liabili- 
ties of the estate, for years, and set it free for him. There is no 
need to do that now ; it is free for him to enjoy — if he can.” 

“ I think you brood too much,” said Gordon, “ over what is irre- 
trievable. Wretched and miserable as matters are, don’t you make 
the worst of them?” 

“ I can’t help brooding,” she cried, passionately. “ I can’t get 
away from my thoughts, or only for a little time, and then to find 
them pressing on me closer than ever. Whichever way I turn, 
whichever way I look, I meet with something to. remind me of the 
hopes I had raised, of the sacrifices I had made, and all for nothing. 
Just when you came I was looking at that garden, and thinking 
how I had hoped to see Millicent Pembury there, and by and by 
her children. Now,- the chances are that no child will ever call 
Millicent mother; and, instead of a good, gentle girl, who would 
have done him honor, and made his home what it should have been, 
he will bring a woman who will be virtually an outcast, who will 
make him live his life apart from his friends, and cause the Holmes, 
which I had hoped to see take its rightful place once again, to be 
shunned and avoided as an unclean place. And she comes,too, between 
him and me! If my son had only died, what would that separation 
be to this? Oh! how I envy those who have nothing worse than 
death to mourn for ! Widows who can speak of their dead hus- 
bands with love and pride to their children ; mothers whose sons 
have scarcely ever given them a grief tilT they were taken from 
them. And such women think they are most wretched ! ” she added, 
bitterly, her whole face quivering with pain, and the tearless eyes 
with which she looked on the garden as if she saw the fallen woman 
of whom she spoke moving there, telling of greater anguish than if 
they had been drowned in tears. 

Presently she turned to him with a face that she had forced into 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


Ill 


composure,— It is rather selfish to bring you here and talk of 
nothing but my own troubles: let us put them aside, and discuss 
this plan of mine for you. If it would satisfy your ambition — if 
you could settle down, for a time at least, into a country doctor, it 
would be an inexpressible comfort to me, and I think you might 
make a fair income — so good an income, indeed, that you need have 
no scruples about becoming my debtor for the amount required. 
Now, let us go into the figures of the thing. I have had a talk with 
Dr. Gardner, who has given me this list of patients, and a rough 
estimate of his profits for the last three years. Let us look both 
over, and see what we can make of them.” 

For the next few minutes Mrs. Gordon was as business-like a 
woman as if she had kept a ledger all her life, and was discussing 
the probabilities of Dr. Gardner’s successor raising the value of his 
practice from five to eight or nine hundred a-year, when the door 
opened again, and Millicent and Polly were ushered in. They had 
walked over, for the two houses were not a mile apart, and there 
was a short way from the grounds of one to those of the other which 
Millicent had again resumed her right of using. Gordon Tynsdell 
turned round, and in a moment recognized the bright face, the 
lithe, slender figure, the elastic step, which had charmed him in the 
girl whom he had escorted through the rain some month’s back. He 
was very pleased — so pleased, that his whole face brightened up, 
and he came toward her with extended hand. 

No introduction seems necessary here,” said Mrs. Gordon. 

I’m not sure of that,” said Gordon Tynsdell. “ Though I have 
spent an hour or two in this young lady’s society, and had the honor 
of protecting her from the rain, I had no opportunity of hearing 
her name, and I am not sure that she knows me by any other than 
^ the Doctor.’ ” 

Polly gave a brief little account of their meeting, blushing a little 
as she did so. Gordon Tynsdell thought the gaslight had hardly 
done her justice; she looked even prettier to-day than she had done 
then, and he felt that Hertfordshire had another inducement beside 
the practice at Clayfield to offer him. There could be no question 
now of continuing the business conversation which Mrs. Gordon 
and he had commenced, but instead, he found himself presently 
walking by Polly’s side in the garden, while Millicent and Mrs. 
Gordon were together discussing some fresh obstacle which Ham- 
mond had thrown in the way of the projected improvements in the 
school-house. They were all going to the fernery together, but 
from the fernery they wandered again into the garden, and Milli- 
cent had not yet finished her recital of her difficulties with Ham- 
mond, who was stupidly impracticable, as servants of his class so 
often are. Even honesty has its price, or, rather, indemnifies itself 
for its devotion to its employers in' obstinacy and ill temper, 

“And how do you like Hertfordshire?” said Mr. Tynsdell to his 
companion, when they had both remarl^ed on the beauty of the day 
and the crocuses, and he wanted to get her to talk, but hardly knew 
:how, Bhc had seemed so much more at her ease with him when 
ithey were under the umbrella together, or waiting beneath the rail- 
x-ray arch. 


112 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


‘"I like it — at least, I like living here. I am very happy with 
Miss Pemhury,’" said Polly, and then relapsed into silence. 

She had an unusual fit of shyness, and was glad when Mrs. Gor- 
don turned into a wider path, and she found herself and Mr. Tyns- 
dell walking in the same line with Millicent and her. There was 
no possibility of a tete-d-Ute now. The talk became general, and 
Polly was more at her ease, and Gordon Tynsdell was better able 
to watch her. How fresh and bright she was — how innocent and 
frank, and yet with such a delicious, piquant self-assertion. Polly, 
on her side, liked Mr. Tynsdell as much, to say the least, as she had 
done the first time she saw him ; and when they walked away, and 
Millicent informed her that Mrs. Gordon had to'ld her she was in 
hopes he Would settle in Clayfield as Dr. Gardner’s successor, Polly 
felt her spirits rise considerably, and was too ignorant in such mat- 
ters — never having had - time to study her own sensations — to know 
the why and wherefore. 

And it was settled that night, between Mrs. Gordon and Gordon, 
that he should take up his quarters in Clayfield as soon as matters 
could be arranged for kis doing so. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

AMANDA’S VISIT TO POLLY. 

Amanda had written a very affectionate letter to Polly, acquaint- 
ing her with her anticipated residence in the countiy, and Polly had 
written back. There the matter had ended, for the present; Aman- 
da had no wish to take Polly into her confidence too soon, or to let 
her know how she relied on her to facilitate her admission into 
Hertfordshire society. “ I shall let her see how things really are 
with me first,” she said, ‘‘and that it may be worth her while to 
make herself useful to me.” 

Accordingly, Amanda waited till Clayfield Hall was in something" 
like order. She had persuaded Uncle Sampson to part with a great 
deal of the furniture of the house at Hackney, under the plea that 
it must be painful to him to see so many reminders of “dear 
Aunt Sampson.” She had never seen “ dear Aunt Sampson ” in her 
life, and she had a vague idea, from what she had heard of her, 
that the “ dear aunt” would not have been nearly so manageable as 
the “ dear uncle” had proved to be. But she always spoke of^her- 
so affectionately, that Mr. Sampson had, by this time, quite forgot- 
ten the fact that his niece and his late wife had been perfect stran- 
gers to each other. Mr. Sampson himself was not so much affected 
by the loss of his wife, comfortably as they had got on together, as. 
to be pained by the sight of any articles of furniture associated with 
her memory; but he thought that as he was about to make a new 
start in life, he might as well have new furniture. Amanda was 
allowed to help him choose it, and she took care to do a great deal 
more than help; and Clayfield Hall, a comfortable, unpretending^ 
mansion of the time of George the Second, had its drawing-room 
filled with buhl cabinets and ebonized chairs, and gilding and china, 
till even Amanda’s heart was satisfied with its splendor. When 
Jhis was done, and other matters arranged to her liking, she ordered 


SOME OF OUK GIllLS. 113 

the new carriage to be got ready, and prepared to drive in state to 
call on Polly. 

There was a grand toilet to be made for the occasion. Amanda 
had left off her black, and had gone into delicate mauyes and blues, 
which suited her pink and white prettiness admirably. She had 
the upper housemaid to assist her. On one pretense or another slm 
had weeded out all Uncle Sampson’s old servants. Admirably as 
the cook and she had agreed, still Amanda thought she should do 
better with a cook of her own choosing. This new housemaid 
soiled her hands with very little domestic work, but she made an 
excellent lady’s-maid; and now that Amanda was out of mourning, 
she felt that she required one. But even Uncle Sampson’s indul- 
gence would have stopped short of a luxury such as no lady of his 
acquaintance dreamed of, and Amanda knew better than to ask 
him for it. But she had her lady’s-maid all the same, only under 
another name; and “ being called a housemaid,” thought Amanda,. 

“ she won’t expect my left-off dresses, and so I can send them to 
Highleigh, to be cut up for the children.” 

“ I don’t look like a widow,” said Amanda to herself, when her 
toilet was completed. “ I don’t think anybody would take me for 
a day over twenty. Well, there’s one thing in being a widow, it 
gives one a longer lease. I shall be as young at thirty as a single 
girl at three-and-twenty. But I expect J shall be married long be- 
fore that. Polly didn’t seem to fancy the idea of my marrying 
again, but that’s only nonsense. I can’t be expected, at my age, to 
go on fretting forever because of her father; and she won’t like 
my being in colors, and as poor Mr. Brooke died last Christmas 
twelvemonth, I think it’s time I left off my black. It’s such horrid 
wear in the summer. ” 

It was a lovely day in the beginning of June, and Amanda en- 
joyed her drive through the country lanes very much. Not that 
she cared much for the beauty of the hedgerows, now gay with 
hawthorn blossoms, or the rich green of the fields ripening fast for 
the hay harvest. A drive down Regent Street in the dullest season 
of the year would have been more congenial to her than one at any 
time through the loveliest country. But the air was pleasant and 
exhilarating; the sun was not too bright for her lace parasol to keep 
off his rays sufficiently ; and with her silks spread out on the ample ~ 
seat of the open carriage, and every rustic she passed turning to 
look at her finery, Amanda felt, and was sure she looked, like a. 
duchess. “And who knows but I might be one,” she thought, 

“ with the chances I’ve got, if it was not for those children? I do: . 
hope Polly will have the sense to hold her tongue about them. ’ 
Men like widows, but they can’t bear their having encumbrances.”" 

Polly was alone in the comfortable little sitting-room, which 
Milly and she laughingly called their office, and where they carried 
on a great deal of the work connected with the task they had under- 
taken. Just now, Polly was cutting out lilac print pinafores for 
the school children to make up. Millicent and she had resolved J 
that tlieir girls should be proficient in needlework, whatever else 
they might be deficient in. They did not care very much for their ^ v 
knowing the latitude of Timbuctoo nor the history of the Byzantine '/'’i 
Jimpire. But as they were, in all probability, to be first household 


114 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


servants and then the wives of working men, they should, at least, 
be well versed in the arts of making, mending, knitting, and darn- 
ing. The furniture of this room was old, like that of the rest of the 
house. One of the charms of the Hall, in Polly’s eyes, was the de- 
lightful mellowness that time had given to all belonging to it, from 
the elms in the park and the evergreens on the lawn to every chair 
and table in the house. But Millicent and she had freshened the 
room up with curtains and chair-covers of rosebud-patterned chintz, 
and there were water-color paintings of Millicent’s on the wall, and 
flower-stands in each of the windows. And early roses peeped in at 
those windows, which overlooked the flower-garden, now becoming 
brighter every day. Altogether it was as pretty and pleasant a 
work-room as two young women, each bent on making the best of 
her life, and brightening the lives of others around them, could have 
had for their own especial sanctum. 

Polly was in a pretty black and white pique morning-dress, 
with just a knot of scarlet iii her hair, and another at her throat. 
She loved a bit of color dearly, some instinct telling her how it 
added to her prettiness. Polly was not vain, and it is not vanity 
wdiich teaches a good and pretty girl to make the utmost of her 
beauty, s5 that she shall be a living picture in the house wherein she 
dwells; so, though Poll}^ had not yet left off her mourning for her 
father, she had a pleasure in wearing those scarlet knots, which 
harmonized so well with her rich clear skin and the dark briglitness 
of her hair and eyes. 

Amanda looked quite out of keeping with this pretty, simple, old- 
world* room, and the neat little figure, with the large scissors in her 
small hands, cutting out those homely cotton garments. Her silks 
were so bright and lustrous, and her bonnet was such a wonderful 
combination of tulle and flowers, and her hair was so elaborately 
dressed, that, altogether, she looked as if she had stepped out of a 
fashion-book of to-day into the bygone life of a century past. 

She kissed Polly effusively. Amanda was always ready with her 
kisses. Then she sat down in the midst of her flounces, and 
said,— • 

“ Don’t stare, Polly. No doubt you think I ought to have come 
sooner, but I’ve been so busy getting the place to rights. We are 
to rights, now, and I shall be very glad to see you at the Hall. I 
^suppose Miss Pembury will let you come. How are you getting on 
wuth her? She seems to keep you pretty hard at vrork,” glancing 
at the lilac prints upon the table. “ Why, 3^ou’ll get corns on your 
hands if you go on cutting-out like that.” 

“ Pve got one,” said Polly, glancing at a small callosity at the 
bottom of her right forefinger. “ But the cutting-out must be done 
all the same. The schoolmistress hasn’t time for everything, and I 
promised she should have these pinafores by to-morrow for the 
children.” 

Well, you’ve come to something! To be cutting out for charity 
children 1 I think you’re letting Miss Pembury put upon you. How- 
ever, you know your own business best,” added Amanda, discreetly 
remembering that it did not matter to her in the least whether or not 
f’olly was “put upon” by Miss Pembuiy, so long as she could 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 115 

make her useful in the way of society. I , daresay you find it 
answer to humor her a little. What sort of a person is she?’’ ' 

“Miss Pembury is very sweet and very charming; and I love 
her with all my heart,” answered Polly. 

“ Ah, well, it’s to be hoped she won’t tire of you. Ladies do tire 
sometimes of their companions. But make hay while the sun 
shines, Polly. Only you won’t! You’re not like other girls. But 
the society ought to be good about here, and if she takes you into 
it, you ought to pick up a husband.” 

“The society is good, in your sense of the word,” said Polly. 
“They’re ladies and gentlemen, of course, who visit here, if some 
of tiiem are not particularly clever or very amusing. But I don’t 
think Miss Pembury engaged me with a view of furthering my mat- 
rimonial prospects; and a country gentleman -with a good estate 
wouldn’t be likely to think of a paid companion, whose father kept 
a chemist’s shop, as a suitable wife for him.” 

“ Oh! whatever you do, Polly, drop that shop!” cried Amanda. 
“ It can’t do you any good to be always bringing it up, and it might 
do me no end of harm. The position that I might take now Uncle 
Sampson has bought himself a landed estate! — and now that puts 
me in mind of something I wanted to speak to you about. Couldn’t 
you get Miss Pembury to call upon me? We’re neighbors now, you 
know, and I’ve a right to expect, now we’re living in Clayfield 
Hall, to be called on by the County. Don’t you think you could 
manage that for me?” 

“ I^’doubt it. 1 never interfere with matters of that kind. It 
would be great impertinence.” 

“ I don’t see that. There are ways of doing things. You might 
ask Miss Pembury to call on me as your relation. I’ve aright to 
expect to be called on on my own account; but so long as she did 
call, I shouldn’t be too particular.” 

“ I would rather not do anything of the kind,” said Polly. “ Miss 
Pembury is so very kind, that I would not, for worlds, trespass on 
her kindness.” 

Polly did not think it expedient to tell Amanda that she had no 
wish to introduce her to Miss Pembury as her relation. Amanda’s 
vulgarity, which her fine clothes and her fine-lady airs only height- 
ened, struck her now as it had never done before. But Polly liad 
been living of late in a more refined atmosphere. 

“ Very well,” said Amanda, with a petulant little toss of the head, 
“I daresay I can do without Miss Pembury — indeed, I only wished 
it on 5 ^our account. I thought it might be useful to you to let her 
see that you had connections quite as well off as herself. And I 
don’t know that Miss Pembury would have suited me.” Polly was 
quite of that opinion. “ I hear she’s odd — one of those women who 
think of setting the world to rights. Our clergyman at Clayfield 
dropped something about her. She’ll get herself talked of if she 
doesn’t mind, and she’ll never marry — and I don’t believe you will 
either, Polly.” 

“You’ve prophesied that a hundred times at least,” said Polly, 
witli a laugh. 

“ Ah, well, we shall see,” replied Amanda, with a knowing little 
nod. “ It never does for girls to be peculiar, and different to other 


116 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


people. Men don’t like it; and as to cleverness, I tell you what, 
Pollv, the one thing in the world a man can’t forgive in his wife is 
her being wiser than himself.” 

Amanda was not such a fool, after all, as Polly sometimes thought 
her. 

“Other people will call if Miss Pembury doesn’t,” continued 
Amanda, reverting to her grievance against Polly. “There’s the 
curate — I like him very much, and he’s rather High, which is all the 
fashion just now; and he visits with the best families, and he 
preaches celibacy — they all do that,” said Amanda, shrewdly; “ the 
High Church ones, at least, till they meet with a rich wifel And 
there’s the rector, but I don’t care so much for him, and the doctor, 
Mr. Tynsdell. I do like him amazingly; he called — at least, I 
didn’t feel very well, so I sent for him; I’m sure he’s quite an 
acquisition to the neighborhood.” 

“ Yes, we all think him a great improvement on old Dr. Gardner,” 
said Polly; but the tell-tale color mounted to her cheeks, and 
Amanda’s keen eyes discerned it. 

“ She’s after the doctor herself! That’s the girl who never wants 
to be married! I hate such artfulness!” And Amanda, in her 
wrath, resolved to punish Polly for keeping, as she imagined, a 
secret from her. But she said no more about the doctor just then, 
and talked, instead, of the improvement that Uncle Sampson had 
made at the Hall, and of her own greatness and glory. It was not 
Amanda’s fault if Polly was not duly impressed by her magnifi- 
cence; and then she took her leave, kissing Polly once more, and 
even more affectionately that when she arrived; and, as she went 
home, she found that the headache, for which she had called in 
Mr. Tynsdell, was coming on again; and, when she arrived at the 
Hail, sent round the groom with a note to him. “ For there’s noth- 
ing like taking things in time,” said Amanda, as she bathed her 
forehead with eau de Cologne, “ and I don’t mean that little minx 
Polly to have the doctor, if I can help it.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CALM SUMMER DAYS. 

Gordon Tynsdell had found himself considered an “ acquisi- 
tion ” to the neighborhood by others than Mrs. Brooke. Clayfield 
was the center of a nest of villages, and its doctor had always 
commanded a good practice, and been in the habit of visiting at the 
best houses. But Dr. Gardner was elderly and deaf, and even the 
most conservative of the Hertfordshire squires considered him 
behind the time. Therefore, the new man — young, and with the 
stamp of Mrs. Gordon’s approval on him — was welcomed into their 
midst, and Gordon Tynsdell found at once that his surroundings 
were almost as different as his patients from those he had had at the 
East-End. His house, too, was a comfortable one — one of those 
unpretentious yet cozy places one sees so often in our larger villages. 
Flush with the footpath, a door in the middle, two windows on 
either side, five above, and then some attics half hidden by the 
gutters; and at the end, a small place built out with aside-door, on 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


117 


v/hich Entrance to the' Surgery” was painted, and a long wall, 
over which apples and pears showed themselves, first in bloom and 
then in fruit, running above the village street. This had been Dr. 
Gardner's residence, and Gordon Tynsdell had entered into it, and 
taken the old-fashioned furniture along with the practice, and found 
himself looked upon as “the doctor” for a circuit of about twenty 
miles. 

He had not thought it necessary to bring that invaluable “house- 
keeper and cook,” Mrs. Sims, with him, but Mrs. Gordon had found 
him a comfortable dame to superintend his household, a stout 
girl to work under her, and a man for his horse and garden, and 
the establishment was eomplete. She had also, as a labor of love^ 
added to the comforts of his home, by bringing into it various little 
elegancies and luxuries, which made it almost perfect as the resi- 
dence of a country bachelor, and which were “not in the lS)nd,” — 
at least, not in the bond which bound Gordon Tynsdell to pay over 
to Charles Gardner so many hundreds for the lease and furniture of 
his house and the goodwill of his*practice, etc. 

In her double desolation — as a widow whose husband's life had 
been a greater soitow than his death, as a mother whose living son 
was to be mourned over more bitterly than many a buried one — Mrs. 
Gordon had turned to this, her husband’s illegitimate offspring, for 
comfort and solace. It did her good to have him near her. She 
had, at first, helped him through a sense of justice, and now an 
affection, that was almost maternal, had sprung up in her heart for 
him. He was pleasant and kind — good every way — good to the eyes 
to look upon; not in the least effeminately handsome, but strong 
and healthful and frank in appearance, and honest and genial in 
character. Then, too, he was something for her to lean upon. She 
had been so much left to herself, that it was an immense relief to 
have some one near her to whom she could turn, as she would unto 
a sou, and ask for help. Why was he not her son? That seemed 
so bitter. If a man so false and unworthy as her late husband was 
to have a good and truthful son, why was he not suffered to be hers 
as well? Then she would sayjo herself, “ this mother was a better 
woman than I, inasmuch as she seems to have loved the man whd 
wronged her.” 

If Mrs. Gordon was hard and stern in her judgment of her hus- 
band and her son, she was hardest and sternest in her judgment of 
herself. She never forget the sin of her youth, in marrying a man for 
whom she cared so little as, at his best, she had cared for her dead 
husband. All the suffering of her married life, all the shame and 
the disappointment her son had brought upon her, seemed only the 
fitting sequence of that early transgression of her own. It was rare, 
indeed, for any one to hear her murmur, or even bemoan herself, 
as Gordon Tynsdell had once done, because just then it had seemed 
impossible for the grief so sternly hidden not to make some sign. 
And if life was to be one long penance, as it had seemed of late, 
why, even of her penance she would try to make the best. She 
went out of herself — out of her own sorrows, into, the sorrows of 
those around her. No mother ever knew, when she was bemoaning 
her child taken up to the angels, that Mrs. Gordon, w-ho seemed all 
tenderness and sympathy for her grief, invied it as one so light 


118 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


compared to her own. If that living son of hers had only died! — 
if that dead husband had been but one whom a woman could love 
and honor! But she had chosen the husband for herself, and the 
son had but too well resembled the father. And although, at times, 
her punishment seemed more thaa she could bear, she felt that she 
had lost the right to murmur at it. 

But she was not wholly miserable, after all. Happiness, like other 
good things, comes to us sometimes when we are least looking for 
it. When she first heard of her son’s perfidy, it seemed to "Mrs. 
Gordon as if she could never smile again— as if the burden of her 
life was too heavy for it to be borne any more. But she could not 
lay it down; there were so many little duties to be fulfilled, that 
they made the one great duty of enduring to the end easier to be 
performed ; there were so many cares for others, that her own espe- 
cial care was put, perforce, into the background. And it was not 
only her own village world, — the old people who owed so many of 
their comforts to her kindly forethought, the children growing up 
in her schools, and looking to her praise for their reward, the mothers 
into whose sorrows and anxieties she entered, — but there was a greater 
world without, where so much was going on, into which such a 
woman as herself could enter and sympathize. It was impossible 
that a life so useful, so full of unselfish thought and energy, could 
be a very unhappy one, though the shadow of a great remorse hung 
over her past, and the cloud of a great grief and humiliation over 
her present. 

Into Millicent’s life, too, had come the blessedness of work. It 
seemed as if her sorrow had come to her and found her a girl dream- 
ing only of her own happiness and that of one other, for whom she 
was content to live, in whose existence she had been ready to merge 
her own, and this beautiful dream of an earthly Paradise had been 
dispelled; her demi-god, with whom she had looked to 'Share it, 
had proved himself of the very poorest clay, and she had found 
herself lonely, desolate, abandoned — with nothing, as it at first 
seemed, to live for but to fulfill the humdrum routine of a dull and 
aimless life. Strength had come to her too, the strength that comes 
from unselfishness, and the resolve that, if life is not to be lived 
happily, it shall, at least, be lived worthily. “ Blessed is the man 
who has found his w^ork and does it,” said Carlyle. In this our 
da3^ a great many women like Millicent Pembury are echoing that 
sentence, and carrying it out to the full. 

Into Polly’s life this was the ha])piest summer that had ever 
come. She had grown to love Millicent Pembury as dearly as one 
girl can love another. It was a half -protecting love, with more of 
the mother than the sister in it, for Millicent was still accustomed to 
lean on and be guided by her, saying, sometimes half in'" jest, half 
in pitiful earnest, — “I shall never be quite able to walk alone, 
Polly.” It had grown to be Polly with her now, just as it was with 
all who knew Miss Brooke well enough to see how well that desig- 
nation suited her. They were just two girls together, giving very 
little thought to the fact that one was a rich heiress, the other her 
paid companion, with nothing but her yearly salary to depend on. 
And Polly, who was happiest when she w^as busiest, had ample 
employment for both hands and head, in helping Millicent reform 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


119 


the little world which had been given to her care, and taking care 
that the roughest and most disagreeable part of the work — for set- 
ting any world to rights, whether large or small, is by no means an 
easy task — should fall to her own lot. 

There was something beside at the root of this wonderful happi- 
ness of Polly’s, though as yet she could hardly own it to herself, 
and this was the society of Gordon Tynsdell. She saw a great deal 
of him this summer. He had had the good fortune to please Mrs. 
Danvers, and of late Mrs. Danvers had not been at all well. Her 
iron constitution — for it had really been something like it — seemed 
at last to be giving way, and she had little touches of debility and 
^mall pains and aches which were quite unusual to her. Mr. Tyns- 
dell understood her, she said. She had been prepared to like him 
on Mrs. Gordon’s account, but she now liked him on his own. She 
was ailing in a small way month after month, and, never having 
been accustomed to illness, w^as greatly alarmed when it came, and 
insisted on Mr. Tynsdell’s calling at least three times a week. 

Being occupied so much with her own ailments, she had less time 
to lecture Millicent on the innovations she was making in the village, 
which otherwise even Mrs. Gordon’s sanction might not havedn- 
duced her to condone. And these small ailments made her take a 
great fancy to Polly, who proved herself a much better nurse than 
■even the invaluable Rutt, and was able to do what Rutt certainly 
•could not — read with fluency and clearness for the hour together. 
Mrs. Danvers congratulated herself on those admirable tactics of hers 
which made her avoid quarreling with any one, and never behaving 
with unlady-like precipitation in any circumstances whatever. If 
she had only yielded to her flrst impressions of Miss Brooke, and in- 
sisted on Millicent sending her away, she would have lost services 
that now were invaluable. Miss Brooke had improved immensely — 
she had acquired some idea of her proper position, and really fitted 
herself to it with a great deal of tact. The truth w^as, that Polly’s 
angles, if she had any, rounded themselves off wonderfully when 
she adopted the role of nurse. Mrs. Danvers, weak, ailing, low- 
spirited, and dependent on her good offices, was altogether a different 
person from Mrs. Danvers, self-sufficing, disagreeable, petrifying, 
and dignified. Polly could not help liking any one who was depend- 
ent on her, and therefore she was now doing what, a few months 
back, would have seemed impossible — honestly liking Mrs. Danvers. 

So it happened that the young doctor and the young nurse saw a 
great deal of each other, and that thus the likings which had begun 
in that walk through the rain to Hackney Station, was cemented. 
Then, too, Gordon Tynsdell was of use to Millicent in many ways. 
His name was a tower of strength in her conflicts with Hammond, 
and she made use of it, too, in dealing ,with some of her people, 
who were quite as much opposed to new ways as the steward. And 
when ajl else failed, the “ doctor ” himself was brought on the scene, 
and a few good tempered words from him would sometimes settle 
matters more happily than Polly’s reasonings, or even Milli- 
cent’s authority. Then, again, the “ doctor” had his troubles, and 
he was very glad of a little feminine help and sympathy. The 
Hertfordshire squires were as opposed to progress as squires are in 
general — perhaps more so; and popular as the new doctor had been. 


120 


SOME OF OUll GIllLS. 


at first, on liis own account and Mrs. Gordon’s, and ready as they 
were to make use of the last new lights in medicine, when sanc- 
tioned by great names, in their own families, they did not like these 
new lights to be made too common. They were not disposed, even 
at the doctor’s most urgent solicitations, to do as was being done in 
Radley, give their people decent dwellings; and consequently, the 
doctor, if he had a fair share of paying patients, had a very large 
share who would never pay at all, and a much larger share than he 
would have had if the squires had not taken such a persistent de- 
light, as it seemed, in letting those “dispensations of Providence,” 
fever and cholera, have -their ow^n way unchecked. But the doctor 
was young and hope’ful, and his young sympathizers at the Hall 
were hopeful too, and the squires would surely yield when they 
saw how well things were going on at Radley; and meanwhile, it 
being the bright summer-time, who shall blame him that, as it was 

“ . . . . the time of roses, 

He plucked them as he passed.” 

Somebody else was plucking them with him. Polly’s path seemed 
strewn with flowers, that delicious summer-time. What it was that 
made each day one long delight, she could not tell. Was it the air? 
the pleasant country sights and sounds, the beautiful old house in 
which she lived, and the pleasant, well-ordered, busy life? Or was 
it this dear new friend, so sweet and so generous, so gracious and so 
good, of whom she was so fond? Polly did not know, but she went 
about running over with happiness, which showed itself in her voice, 
»and her eyes, and her step. And happiness agreed with her, and 
made her sweeter and prettier, and brighter. But the cause of this 
happiness Polly knew nothing of, as yet; she liked Gordon Tyns- 
dell, and it was very clear that he liked her, but, as yet, it had not 
entered into Polly’s thoughts to ask herself whether this liking 
would turn to anything more, or where was to be the end of all this 
pleasant, bright intercourse of theirs. Until one day, wdien her eyes 
•were opened to the real nature of all this new-found joy, and then 
the joy took wings to itself and flew away. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

AMANDA’S LITTLE PLANS. 

Clayfield, like many other villages, consisted of one street, 
with laborers’ cottages and gardens on either side vain with the 
blacksmith’s or the wheelwright’s shop. But Clayfield Street w^as 
distinguished from other village streets in having the doctor’s resi- 
dence, of which I have spoken, at one end, while in its very midst 
was the mansion of its Squire. Clayfield Hall lay back onl}^ a little 
way from its humbler compeers, fenced in by tall iron palisades, 
with an imposing gate in the center, and between the house and the 
road fliere was only a broad carriage sweep round a small grass lawn, 
so that whatever village life might be going on, Amanda was able 
to enjoy from her windows. The house itself was built much in the 
same style as the doctor’s, but on a far larger scale. The stables and 
outbuildings were on one side„ and the gardens extended to some 


SOME OF OUIl GIRLS. 


. 121 


distance in the rear. Altogether, it was a snug little domain, and 
very much more to Mr. Sampson’s taste than if it had been buried 
in acres of park, or he had had to drive half-a-mile through his 
grounds to his lodge-gate. He liked to feel himself the great man 
of his village, and he liked to be near enough to his village to real- 
ize his greatness. He farmed a little, and, of course, lost money by 
it, which, being a sensible man, he had expected to do from the 
first. But it was right for a country gentleman to grow his own 
mutton and make his own hay, and a country gentleman Uncle 
Sampson meant to be. He had a head gardener, who made a good 
thing of the garden, and kept his master in excellent order; and he 
had orchard-houses, and a fernery and vineries, and a conservatory 
and two greenhouses, not because he cared at all for flowers, but 
because his City friends considered their cultivation, in a certain 
expensive and elaborate manner, one of the outward signs and mani- 
festations that a man should make of his wealth when that wealth 
has reached a certain number of thousands. 

Clayfield Hall had always held its own amongst the lesser gentry 
of the county, and Mr. Sampson found himself very well received 
fey most of his neighbors. He was very hospitable, and his wine 
and his dinners were both good; and he subscribed freely to the 
Hunt, though he never mounted a horse himself ; and his political 
opinions were those of most of his neighbors, who, it happened, 
were, like many Hertfordshire squires. Conservative to the back- 
bone. If he had had any talent whatever but that especial one of 
making money, they might not have got on so well with him as 
they did; but as it was, Mr. Sampson, not being likely to put them 
to shame by his own superior intellectuality, they agreed in voting 
him a very good fellow, and admitted him on sufferance to their 
ranks, feeling that they practiced a little amiable condescension in 
doing so, and forgave the manner in which he had made his money 
for the sake of the good use he put it to when made. 

But Amanda, after the first, was not so pleased with her new sur- 
roundings as her uncle was. She did not like the ladies amongst 
whom she found herself, and (women, even if not very clever ones, 
which, perhaps, none of these were, being keener-sighted than men 
where other women are concerned) they did not like her. They 
said that she was vulgar and over dressed. There might have been 
a little envy in the last assertion, for Amanda’s toilets were really 
good and tasteful, but they were right in the first. Amanda was on 
her guard with them, too, and never, when in company, indulged 
m the colloquialisms with which she favored Polly. But still she 
was not a lady, and these other women had sufficient wit to find 
that out, and make the most of the offense. Then, too, Amanda 
was so undeniably pretty, and, they had a suspicion, was by no 
means so silly as she seemed ; and to some extent they were right, 
for, so far as her own small interests were concerned, Amanda was 
certainly not a fool. And most women, especially if with a limited 
horizon, and still more limited culture, find it hard to forgive the 
possession in another of superior intellect or cleverness. So Amanda 
did not feel at home with them. The gentlemen admired her, and 
made no secret of their doing so. Perhaps the ladies would hcve 
liked her better if they had been more reticent in their admiration 


122 


SOME OF OUR UIRLS. 


of the new-comer. But ‘ there was no good to he got out of any of 
them/ according to A.manda. They were not marrying men, being 
most of them married already; and their sons, if they had any, 
were either in the nursery or at school, or otherwise away from 
home. There was a great dearth of eligible bachelors in that part 
of Hertfordshire. There was Mr. Tilburne, of the Roydons, it was 
true, and Amanda had spread her nets very cleverl}^ for him, but 
had spread them in vain. Mr. Tilburne thought her exceedingly 
pretty, and had let her know as much; but he simply required ab- 
solute perfection in a wife, and Amanda did not co'me up to his 
standard. Not all her prettiness, not all the wealth that everybody 
said she must inherit from her uncle, would atone, in Mr.^ Til- 
burne’s eyes, for the fact that her uncle, her only connection of 
whom anything was known, had been in business, and that Amanda 
herself was believed to be the widow of some obscure medical 
practitioner in London. Amanda had contrived to ' drop the shop,’ 
as she had besought Polly to do ; but whether her husband had 
been a chemist, or a medical man of whom nothing was known but 
the fact that he had been the husband of Mrs. Brooke for a short 
time of his existence, mattered very little to this Hertfordshire 
squire, with his long descent from eight or nine generations of no- 
bodies. 

No, Amanda looked round and found all barren, and then she 
bethought herself again of the good-looking and pleasant doctor at 
whose name Polly had blushed — positively blushed, and who was 
such a near neighbor of her own. She had called him in to that 
headache of hers, which had come on so suddenly after her visit to 
the Hall; but, after that, people had dropped in, and there had 
been a little time when she had imagined that Mr. Tilburne was 
not impervious to her attractions; and so, not even for the pleasure 
of vexing Polly, had it seemed worth while to trouble herself much 
about Mr. Tynsdell. But she saw, now, that nothing was to be 
gained from the various gentlemen who had made her uncle’s 
acquaintance, and Mr. Tilburne was said to be engaged to Miss 
Crecy (whom he afterward married), and the young doctor was so 
near, and so much in her w^ay. She saw him every Sunday at 
church, when his patients suffered him to go there; and when she 
took her walks in the village, in one or other of those pretty cos- 
tumes, which made half her neighbors — the feminine half — wild 
with envy, he would either be driving or walking through, or 
coming out at the door of one of the cottages, or standing at his 
own, and in any case there would be the exchange of a good- day, 
or a bow, or a smile, and Amanda w’^ould go home, feeling very 
well satisfied with herself for that day, at least. 

Mr. Tynsdell was ten times better -looking than Mr. Tilburne, 
pleasanter, and better-mannered. Mr. Tilburne was proud — oh! 
insufferably proud — she was sure of that, and with not so much to 
be proud of, after all — just a country squire, with nothing but his 
few farms and his old house to be proud of. Mr. Tynsdell was 
only a doctor, it was true; but if she married him, Uncle Sampson 
would be sure to do something for them, and they might go and 
live in town, in one of the West-End squares; and he would get a 
first-class practice, for there was no mistake about Mr. Tynsdell’s 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


123 


Ibeinf^ clever— every one said that. He might be called in to attend 
one or other of the Royal Family, and by-aud-by have a baronetcy. 
There were all sorts of things possible to a clever man, with money 
enough to wait his time. 

Amanda thought all this very seriously over. She really could 
think, though she always did lier best to persuade people that she 
never did anything of the kind; and the result of her meditations 
was a firm resolve to marry Gordon Tynsdell, if possible. She had 
meant to do better things, when she first came to that part of the 
world, than marry a country doctor, but if she did marry Mr. 
Tynsdell, he should not be a country doctor very long, and there 
being no higher game in the way, and haying resolved to hunt 
down this especial game, Amanda set herself to follow the chase in 
earnest. 

Gordon Tynsdell found that the people at Clayfield Hall were 
likely to be excellent patients. Amanda had a great many head- 
aches that summer — perhaps it was the hot weather; and when the 
haymaking was about, and she caught a cold, she insisted to Uncle 
Sampson that she had the hay-fever, and Mr. Tynsdell was sent for 
accordingly, and found that unless he chose to be considered 
unduly neglectful to his patients, he would be expected to pay half- 
a-dozen visits at the least. Then one or other of the servants had 
small ailments, and Amanda seemed bent on proving herself an 
excellent mistress, for they were placed under Mr. Tynsdell’s care 
at once. And let him visit whom he might, Amanda was alwaj^s in 
the way to receive instructions and answer inquiries. Gordon 
Tynsdell was a clever man, but it takes a cleverer man than he to 
be a match for a cunning woman, and he failed to see the true 
reason why his visits were in such request. Mrs. Brooke was a 
pretty, silly little woman, and she amused him, and he had no 
objection to be amused. And it never occurred to him that she 
should think of him in any light but as her medical man, or as a 
neighbor who made the dullness of the country more endurable than 
it would otherwise have been. He had not the slightest idea of 
falling in love with her — perhaps because he had rather more than 
an idea that he was very much in love with somebody else. And 
he ]iad made up his mind that as soon as he felt securely settled in 
Clayfield, and had cleared off some part of the debt he owed Mrs. 
Gordon, he would see if he could not bring a wife to slnare the 
liouse which now seemed so inconveniently large for a bachelor. 

And Amanda had made up her mind, too, that he should bring 
home a wife ; but that wife was certainly not the person Mr. Tyas- 
dell had selected for himself. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

ANOTHER VISIT FROM AMANDA. . 

Mrs, Danvers got better toward the end of the summer, and, as 
she expressed it, was quite her old self, and alive to all that society 
required of people who occupied the position that her niece and she 
did. Polly did not find her services, either as nurse or reader, in 
such constant requisition, and was put back — she hardly knew how, 


124 SOME OF "OUR GIRLS. 

into “ her place,” as far as Mrs. Danvers was concerned. Polly was 
a little amused, and, being mortal, a little piqued, but soon got wer 
the latter feeling, and congratulated herself on having so much 
more time at her disposal, though perhaps not quite so glad that 
Mr. Tynsdell now only paid one visit where before he had paid 
half-a-dozen. 

Mrs. Danvers being better, as I have said, she felt herself able to 
fulfill, and see that Millicent fulfilled, their respective social obliga- 
tions, and to find fault with the manner in which they had been 
neglected during her indisposition. During her niece’s minority, 
she had always taken care that The Hall should hold its own in a 
quiet, lady-like manner in the neighborhood. Dinner-parties, with 
no gentleman of the family, and the lady a minor, had been, she 
considered, out of the question; but there had been small dances- 
in the winter, and croquet with high tea in the summer; and alto- 
gether, Mrs. Danvers was considered to have acted very judiciously 
during her niece’s minority, and the Hall had done its duty to its 
neighbors, without at all venturing into undue prominence. 

‘"How,” she said, plaintively, “nothing has been done.” She 
still considered herself entitled to indulge in a little querulousness. 
“The whole summer has gone by, and the Hall might as well have 
been shut up and deserted for all that it has done to the neighbor- 
hood. You have been sacrificing everything to your whims about 
that village. Even Mrs. Gordon must think you are carrying mat- 
ters too far. You might as well turn nun or sister of charity at 
once.” 

“ But you know, aunt, I couldn’t well have people when you are 
poorly,” said Millicent. 

.“ I would have made any sacrifice for your sake, Millicent,” said 
Mrs. Danvers, with dignity, “as I think I have shown often 
enough ; and people must be kept together ; and when I undertook 
to act as your guardian, and, I may say, as your mother, I fully 
recognized all that was required of me. 1 should never have 
thought of allowing my own sufferings to interfere with any due 
exercise of hospitality on your part, and this summer, now you are 
of age, and especially after that unhappy affair with Mr. Gordon, 
you ought to show yourself, and let people see that you are not 
going to give way.” 

“i think I have been showing that, as it is,” said Millicent, 
quietly. 

But the end of it was that a large garden-party was resolved on, 
and invitations were sent out far and near. Millicent, who had 
just settled down into her new grooves, disliked anything that 
seemed like bringing her back into her old ones, and she went for 
sympathy to Mrs. Gordon, and did not obtain it. 

“Your aunt is quite right,” Mrs. Gordon said. “ It will never 
do for a girl of your age to ignore all the claims that her little world 
has on her. We must remember that our rich neighbors have 
claims on us as well as our poor ones. I should like to see you give 
this garden-party as it ought to be given, and I hope you will have 
a very pretty dress expressly from London for it. ” 

“ But you will come, too?” asked Millicent, eagerly. 

“Don’t ask me,” said the other, in a pained^ voice. 


“I mu^ 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


125 


have a little longer time yet, Millicent.- Your sorrow may be lived 
down; there is no shame" in it. , But he — this man who has sinned 
against you — is my son ; the shame of his misdoings seems to rest 
on me. I cannot face my neighbors yet; I cannot look a whole 
crowd of people in the face who know all his miserable story. 
Some day I shall come amongst them again as I once did, but not 
yet — not yet.’' 

When Mrs. Danvers heard of Mrs. Gordon’s resolution, she said 
it was only what might have been expected under the circum- 
stances, and, like everything Mrs. Gordon did,, showed her good 
sense and tact. Polly was busy directing invitations, and Mrs. 
Danvers made interest with the colonel of the — th, then quar- 
tered at Ilchester, and he promised the services of the regimental 
band. The colonel was a cousin of one of her husbands, and 
she kept up with him as she did with all her connections, and the 
loan of the band proved, as she triumphantly showed, the policy of 
doing so. “One never knows when people may be of use,” she 
said to Millicent. “I never drop anybody if I can help it, and I 
take care to quarrel with no one. Now, Colonel George’s wife is a 
perfectly vulgar woman ; her people were something in trade, and 
half his relations turned the cold shoulder on them both when they 
married. She had 'money, but not enough, you know. Still I 
could not find ^it in my heart, if only on account of poor Mr. Lan- 
don, to throw him over. So I wrote, civilly congratulating him; 
and about twice a,- year I send him a short letter, and always con- 
clude with kind regards to his wife. Now you see the. good of it 
all. We shall have the band, and some of the oflScers, and we 
sha’n’t have Mrs. George, for she is laid up with her sixth or sev- 
enth baby. I forget how many there are, and whether they are all 
boys or all girls, but I know it’s one or the other. I must find out 
from the colonel in the course of conversation.” 

Gordon Tynsdell received his invitation, and then and there he 
came to the resolution that the day of Miss Pembury’s garden-party 
should be the crowning day of his life. He was just stepping into 
his phaeton to make a long round through the cluster of villages 
which looked upon him as their chief sanitary authority. He put 
the note in his waistcoat pocket, for he recognized the handwriting 
that filled up the printed form ; and as he drove through Radley, 
which he did an hour after, the resolution he had formed was 
strengthened by the sight of Polly coming through the village. She 
had a white pique dress, which she had braided herself, and fash- 
ioned into a costume which a Regent Street house need not have 
disdained to send forth, and a coarse Leghorn hat, with a broad 
black ribbon and a bunch of purple violets in it. But in all matters 
of millinery and dressmaking Polly was a born artist. Gordon 
Tynsd ell’s eyes brightened wlien he saw her, and brightened still 
more as she smiled and blushed in answer to his bow. “ God bless 
her!” said the young man, and deep down in his heart there was a 
wish, which was almost a prayer, that he might be a husband 
worthy of this good and sweet and pretty girl. ' 

“My little Polly!” he said fondly; he had become familiar 
enough with her pet name. “What a dear, brave, tender little 
soul it is! She has had a hard fight of it, I suspect, sometimes. 


126 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


though just now her lines seem to have fallen in pleasant places. I 
think she cares for me, or, if she doesn’t, I think I can teach her to 
do so, and I don’t believe she would mind an engagement of a year 
or so. I should like 1o feel that my goods and chattels were my 
own before I asked ray wife to share them wuth me. And Mrs. 
Gordon is one of the best of wmmen, but I don’t care to increase my 
debt, even to her. Besides, she can have none too much for her- 
self. Well, Thursday week will soon be here, and then — and 
then ” 

The doctor’s horse stopped at the door of the patient, where three 
children were lying ill of some infantile disorder, and even his love 
dreams had to give way to the measles. 

When Amanda heard of the fete that was to be given at the Hall 
at Radley, she began to think how she could obtain an invitation to 
it. Miss Pembury had not called at Olayfield Hall, because, at the 
time of Amanda’s arrival in the neighborhood, Miss Pembury had 
a great many other things to think of than paying visits of cere- 
mony. Perhaps, as Mrs. Gordon had told her, she should have re- 
membered that her rich neighbors, as well as her poor ones, had 
claims on her; but she had been so accustomed to leave all such 
matters to the direction of Mrs. Danvers, that even had she been 
less occupied wutli the new duties of her village reforms, it might 
not have occured to her to call on Mrs. Brooke while her aunt was 
unable to accompany her. And Polly had said nothing of her con- 
nection with the lady of Olayfield Hall. When Amanda had paid 
her state visit, Mrs. Danvers had been lying down with a bad 
headache, and Rutt had been bathing her temples with eau de 
Cologne; Millicent had been in the village hearing those very girls 
their singing lessons for whom Polly was cutting-out the lilac pina- 
fores; so that the new carriage and high-stepping grays which drew 
it were wasted for that day as far as Millicent and her aunt were 
concerned. And Polly had made no mention to Millicent of 
Amanda’s visit. She was a little hurt by the manner in which 
Amanda had spoken of her father’s shop. “If she is ashamed of 
him, she may be ashamed of me,” thought Polly, “ and so, perhaps, 
the less 'we see of each other the better. I won’t force Miss Pem- 
bury into an acquaintance that I am sure would be distasteful to 
her, for it would be forcing to impose on her kindness by asking 
her to call on Amanda; and as I can’t do that, we are better apart. 
Amanda wran’t care to have it known that her step-daughter is Miss 
Pembury’s paid compj^nion, when she finds she can make no use of 
her. I’ll wu-ite to her now and then. I mustn’t lose sight of her 
on account of the children ; besides, poor papa'was very fond of 
her.” 

Amanda had not even answered Polly’s kind little letters. There 
was no good in doing it, she said, as Polly was so selfish and ill- 
natured; but there was some good to be made out of Polly now, 
for she must procure her an invitation to the Hall. 

“ I shall never be able to look Mr. Tynsdell in the face if I am 
not there,” thought Amanda. “ He’ll know, of course, that I was 
not asked; and he’s just like other men, sure to think twice as much 
of a woman if he finds that other people think much of her too. 
And every one else will know it too. 1 shall never be thought any- 


SOME OE OL'R GIRLS. .12? 

thing of, or asked anywhere, if I am left out of this. Ill drive 
over to Polly this very afternoon and tell her that 1 expect her to 
get an invitation for me. If she won’t do as much as that for her 
poor dear father’s wife, she can’t have any decent feeling in her.’’ 

Polly was again alone when Amanda called, and she was busy 
with needlework this time as well as the other. Amanda’s eyes 
took in the loneliness and the occupation too. 

“Miss Pembury doesn’t seem to give you much of her com- 
pany,” she said, sharply; “ she hasn’t got tired of you already, has 
she?” 

“No, I don’t thinly she has,” said Polly, with a bright, happy 
smile; “ but she is in the village, reading to a sick girl.” 

“ 1 thought all your girls w^er© taught to read to themselves,” said 
Amanda. 

“ This one is too ill to do so,” said Polly, gravely; “Fanny Gill 
is dying very fast.” 

“ Fanny GilU I have heard of her,” and Amanda looked very 
proper; “ I wonder Miss Pembury should go there.” 

“ We won’t talk of Fanny’s shortcomings,” said Polly, gravely. 

Perhaps if you and I had had no better chance given us than she 
had, we might have done the same.” 

‘ ‘ Polly ! ” Amanda drew herself up in indignant austerity ; then 
wisely remembered that it would not do to be too indignant, as she 
had a favor to ask of Polly. “ But you always were so odd,” she 
said, with a little laugh, “and I really think you grow worse. Never 
mind, 1 want you to do something for me.” 

“ I thought so as soon as I saw you,” said Polly, and made a 
shrewd guess at the purport of Amanda’s visit, 

“ Well, I’m sure you might have been to see me,” said Amanda; 

but I dare say Miss Pembury keeps you pretty \rellto your work."' 

“ Oh, I’m not quite a slave,” said Polly. 

“ No, I’ve heard that you’re like sisters, ” replied Amanda, think- 
ing that a little flattery might not be amiss; “and, knowing that, 
I’ve just driven over to ask you if you couldn’t get me an invitation 
to this garden-party, or fete, or whatever it is, on Thursday week. 
You know it will be so very awkward for me to be left out; quite 
an affront, for Mrs. Danvers and Miss Pembury ought to have called 
as soon as I came to the Hall; but knowing that Mrs. Danvers has 
been ill, and Miss Pembury having such a character for being odd, 
I shouldn’t mind that if an invitation vrere sent now. It’ll be quite 
an affront if it isn’t,” continued Amanda, sinking into a pathetic 
tone; “and I’m sure, if only out of respect to your dear papa’s 
memory, you ought not to let me be subjected to anything of the 
kind.” 

“ I’ll — I’ll see what I can do, Amanda,” said Polly, a little anxious- 
ly; “ but you must know that it is a thing in which I have no right 
to interfere.” 

“ Ah, that might be all very well in most cases,” said Amanda; 
“ but, as I said, everybody knows that Miss Pembury and you are 
just like sisters. Now, do see what you can do for me, that’s a 
flear, and I never forget a good turn. I may be able to do as much 
for you some day. Is that the dress you’re going to wear? Making 
it yourself too. Well, she does give you time for that, it seems.” 


128 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 

wish, Amanda/’ cried Polly, with a little irritation, ‘'that 
you would not talk of Miss Pembury in that manner. Just as if she 
was a hard task -mistress, and I her slave! She is just one of the 
sweetest, best, and most generous creatures living, and 1 am one of 
the very happiest girls in existence.” 

“That’s what everybody says, Polly,” said Amanda, “that you 
can-do with Miss Pembury exactly as you please; so that I think it 
will be too bad if you don’t get me this invitation. W ell, I like your 
dress. That’s the prettiest chintz I’ve seen for a long time ; but I 
don’t think the Dolly Varden style will suit you. It’s not so becom- 
ing to dark people.” 

“We shall see when the time comes,” said Polly; and something 
in her tone implied that her dress, at least, should do honor to the 
occasion. Dolly Yardens were in the height of their bloom that 
special summer, and Amanda, as she eyed the pretty, flowered 
chintz and cherry-colored skirt with which Polly meant to adorn 
herself, resolved to have a dress like it for the occasion. “ Only 
mine shall be a flowered silk instead of chintz, and, the petticoat a 
pink quilted satin. I’ll send to London for it, hat and all, and I’ll 
make Polly look nothing when I come near her.” 

Then, after asking several questions about and the dress 

Miss Pembury meant to wear, she kissed Polly again, and took her 
departure; and she had hardly gone when Millicent came in, look- 
ing-grave and sad. She had just left Fanny Gill, and the girl was 
dying fast. The mother had told her so. Fanny’s surroundings, 
now, were more consistent with comfort and decency than they 
had ever yet been in her short life, but she was dying in consequence 
of a cold caught soon after the birth of her child. 

“ And the child will live,” said Millicent; “ the child, who ought 
never to have been born to be a burden on Fanny’s father and mother, 
and Fanny herself. Oh, it does seem so dreadful for her to be dying 
like this, just when I might have helped her to retrieve the past, as 
far as such a past could be retrieved. And it seemsall my fault! The 
shame that has fallen on this girl — the dreadful waste of her life! 
Oh, Polly! if, instead of bemoaning my own troubles so selfishly 
as I did, I had only thought of the sin and the sorrow lying at my 
very gates- — 

“You lost very little time, dear, in doing your best to conquer 
both the sin and the sorrow,” said Polly, Idssing her lovingly. 
Polly’s kisses were never lavished like Amanda’s, and, therefore, 
they were all the more precious when they came. “ You did not 
know before, and you could not have done much if you had 
known. You are only twenty-two now, remember.” 

“ I never should have known if it had not been for you, Polly,” 
said Millicent. “ I should have gone on in my r'wn selfish misery, 
sinning in my own way, as much — oh! more than ever Fanny Gill 
has done in hers. Oh, it does seem so awful to think of girls like 
myself leading our careless, easy lives, and to think of all those 
girls without who have never had a chance of growing up into good 
and modest women.” 

‘‘There will not be many girls growing up like that in Radley 
now,” said Polly. “ You are working like a heroine in your own 
little kingdom, like the most amiable and yet the most peremptory 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


129 


of despots, as I heard somebody say of you;” the somebody” was 
Gordon Tynsdell, but Polly was always shy of mentioning his name; 
“and 1 should think there was nothing like an autocracy if all au- 
tocrats were like you. And now 1 have a request of my own to 
make to the lad}^ of the Hall,” said Polly, anxious not onl}’^ to say 
what she had to say on Amanda’s account as soon as possible, and 
so be rid of an unpleasant task, but to divert Millicent’s thoughts 
from a subject which she could see was distressing her. And then 
she told her of Amanda’s visit, and the errand that had brought 
her. 

“^So that was Mrs. Brooke I saw in the open carriage that drove 
out of the lodge gates as I came in. I thought it was one of Aunt 
Danvers’s many friends, and I was going to ask who it was. Why 
didn’t you tell me, Polly, that it was your mamma in-law. who had 
come to Clayfield Hall, and I would have called on her.” 

“ I didn’t want you to do soon my account,” said Polly. “I 
don’t think you would like ximanda; but still, if you could send her 
a card for Thursday week, it would please her very much, and it 
isn’t pleasant to be left out in the cold.” 

“Oh, she shall certainly have a card,” said Millicent;. and 
Amanda received one tlie next morning, and wrote off for her dress 
at once. 

“ Polly will look like a milk-maid in hers;” she said, when she 
had concluded the letter, “ and I should think such a dress as mine 
ought to settle the matter as far as Mr. Tynsdell is concerned. I 
wonder whether she really does care for him. Well, I’ve cut out a 
good many girls in my time; but I never did think I should have 
the fun of cutting out Polly.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

AMANDA IS VERY BUSY. 

The day of Millicent’s garden-party was as bright as if the sun 
himself was shining in her favor. Ail the country side had come to 
do her honor, and the young heiress herself was looking her love- 
liest, and feeling, for that day at least, as happy as if Horace Gor- 
don had never caused her a heartbreak. Mr. Tilburne was there 
with his intended. Their engagement was openly talked of now, 
and Millicent, looking on him, languid and gentlemanly and com- 
monplace, wondered how she could ever have thought it possible 
that she could spend her life with him. Mrs. Danvers was looking 
very comfortable and dignified in her invalidism, the traces of 
which still hung round her, and she had more than ever the air of 
doing her duty by her niece at any sacrifice to herself. Uncle 
Sampson came in good time, and he shook hands with Mrs. Dan- 
vers, when he was introduced to her, with a cordiality which, she 
told Millicent afterward, was quite overpowering; and he went 
round the gardens with Amanda on his arm, very proud to find 
himself among so many people of good standing, “"the best men in 
the county ” as he whispered to Amanda, and very proud of his 
hiece, whom he believed to be the best-dressed and the prettiest 
woman there. 


s 


130 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


Amanda, however, did not intend to remain long with her uncle. 
She withdrew her arm from him, and soon had another cavalier, 
Willy Tilburne, a cousin of Mr. Tilburne of the Roydons, an Eton 
school-boy spending part of his holidays with his uncle, and as pro- 
foundly ignorant and as perfectly self-possessed as young Etonians 
generally are. He was very pleased with his post at Amanda's 
side, and she congratulated herself on having him. “ A boy like 
that can be thrown off as soon as I have done with him, which 
will be as soon as I see Mr. Tynsdell.” 

Presently she did see Mr. Tynsdell, and Polly was on his arm.. 
Perhaps they were going to play croquet on one lawn, or join the 
dancers on another. Polly had taken Mr. TynsdelFs arm for some 
such purpose, but they were walking away now from both, seem- 
ingly sufficiently engrossed with each other to need no other 
amusement. Amanda’s heart sank within her. 

“ Nasty, mean, ugly little creature! That’s the girl who always 
seems to think no man is good enough for her. And Mr. Tynsdell 
to be so deceitful ! I’ll get him away from her somehow. Let me 
see— I’m sure Uncle Sampson’s cough was troublesomf' last night. 
I almost wish I’d one of the children with me at the Hall ; children 
are always wanting the doctor; but Uncle Sampson wouldn’t hav'e 
liked it, and the child might have been in the way.” 

That day, or rather that especial hour, was just the golden one 
of Polly’s life. Gordon Tynsdell was looking on her with eyes in 
which she could read only one meaning. Did he love her? He 
could never look like that, else. And he w^as so handsome, and so 
pleasant, and so genial, and so kind. Every one spoke wmll of the 
clever young doctor, who was so tender and yet so strong, so kindly 
and yet so skillful. Of all happy girls, would she not be the very 
happiest if indeed he cared for her? Presently they sat down, 
alone as they thought, and that little nook of the garden was a 
small Eden for the moment; but Amanda’s sharp eyes were watch- 
ing them, and her companion said softly — “ Spoons there, I think.”* 

They talked a little — just the aimless, broken words that so often 
are all that people find to say when they most desire to shine in the 
eyes of one another. But if it were possible for Minerva to fall in 
love, Minerva would not shine in conversation while she was under 
the influence of the tender passion. They were two very clever 
young people, and they had plenty of subjects in common, but just 
then' the only things they could find to say were trivialities about 
the day, and the weather, and WiefUe. Perhaps the sound of their 
own voices was enough for them, and they hardly took in the 
meaning of a word thej^ said, or it might be that Gordon Tynsdell 
'was castiug about for words that should have very much of mean- 
ing in them. 

Amanda came toward them. She was determined to separate 
the two by a coup de main, and she almost flung herself on Polly, 
and kissed her effusively. Gordon T3msdellwas taken by surprise; 
he was not aware that the two ladies were even acquainted, neither 
of them having mentioned her relationship to the other. I have 
been looking for you everywhere,” said Amanda, ‘'and what a 
lovely day it is. Oh, Mr. Tynsdell, I must have a little talk to you 
presently about dear Uncle" Sampson. His' cough last night was- 


SOME - OF OUR GIRLS. 


131 


quite distressing. But, Polly, I have sometliing I must tell you 
4ibout.' Pm sure these gentlemen will excuse us.” And P0II3" 
found herself drawn away from Gordon Tynsdell, and he and the 
JEtonian- were left to enjoy each other’s society. 

He was a little puzzled, and very much vexed. As to the Eton- 
ian, if he knew little Latin, and less Greek, and nothing at all of 
grammatical English, still he was very well acquainted with a great 
many things with which it might have been as well if he had re- 
mained in ignorance. He took in the position at once, and gave 
.Mrs. Brooke credit for her tact in making herself mistress of the 
situation. Gordon Tynsdell’s face amused him. “ He’s s-weet on 
the little one, but the fair one means to cut her out, and I’d give 
long odds in her favor.” 

Meanwhile Amanda, having secured Polly, hastened to tell her 
why she had done so. “ My dear little darlings are not well; I had 
a letter from Patty this morning, and she says they are sickening 
for something. Isn’t it shocking, and me so far away? I felt as 
if I must tell you, Polly. It’s dreadful, isn’t it, to be going about 
like this with such a weight on my mind?” 

“ But you needn’t go about like this,” said .Polly. ” There was 
nothing, that I see, to preveiit your going to the children this morn- 
ing as s^oon as you heard they were ill.” 

” That would be such a dreadtul return to dear Uncle Sampson 
for all his kindness,” said Amanda. “ You don’t consider the duty 
I owe him.” 

‘‘ To tell you the plain truth, Amanda, I certainly think more of 
the duty you owe to my father’s children. ” 

“ It’s Dll their account, Polly, that I study uncle so much,” said 
Amanda, plaintively. ” You know he can leave his money just as 
he pleases, and it would never do for me to offend him. Little 
treasures! Perhaps I may be able to have them with me before 
long. It is such a mercy,” she added, dropping her voice into a 
confidential whisper, “ that Mr. Tynsdell is so fond of children.” 

” What difference will that make to you?” asked Polly, quickly. 

Amanda smiled and looked mysterious. “ That’s a little secret 
betw^een Mr. Tynsdell and me, Polly. There are some things that 
one does not care to talk about too soon; but you shall be the very 
first to hear when we can talk about them.” 

Presently Polly’s step-mamma left her, and it seemed as if, in 
those few minutes, she had taken all the charm and brightness of 
the day with her. Polly was miserable, hurt, angry, shamed. In 
all but words, for weeks past, Gordon Tynsdell had told her that 
he loved her. She v/as pure, and modest, and womanly in all true 
womanhood; but still it would have been impossible for any girl, 
however shy and diffident, to put any construction but one upon 
Gordon Tynsdell’s attentions to her. And if she was to believe 
Amanda, it was of her he had been thinking all the time. What 
other mystery could there be between him and her? What other 
reason could Amanda have for congratulating herself upon his love 
of children? And she had been played with, befooled, toyed with, 
just because the younsr doctor w’-anted a little amusement on his 
rounds! But wuis it true? Could it be true? Might it not be an 
invention of Amanda’s? Then she looked up, and saw Gordon 


132 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 

Tynsdell standing by Amanda’s side, a little apart from a group of 
croquet-players, and she was talking to him in that pretty prattling 
way she had, which made most men, even if they were as clever as 
Gordon Tynsdell, think her the most charmingly innocent and in- 
fantile of little women; and he was bending over her listening to 
every word with an interest as great and unmistakable as he had 
ever shown in words of Polly’s. 

Ah! greater still! Had he ever bent over her as if he were afraid 
of losing her slightest utterance? Had he ever spoken as he seemed 
now to speak, quickly, fiercely, passionately, as if his very life 
depended on her answer? And Amanda was playing with her par- 
asol, and twisting her lace handkerchief between her fingers, and 
mincing out the pretty little phrases wdiich he tried to catch as 
eagerly as if, like the girl in the old fairy tale, she were dropping 
diamonds and pearls. Diamonds and pearls ! They were toads and 
scorpions those pretty rosy lips were sending forth. 

And so Polly has never told you I was her step-mamma. I took 
it as a matter-of-course she had, as I knew 3^ou W'ere so much at 
Pembury Hall. Yes, I married poor dear Mr. Brooke when I was a 
child, scarcely out of pinafores. Pollj^ and I were just like sisters, 
you know. There’s scarcely any difference between our ages. And 
Mr. Brooke left us both sadly unprovided for. But Polly was al- 
wa3^s so well able to take care of herself. Ho fear but wdiat she- 
would fall on her feet. As to me, I don’t know what I should have 
done if dear Uncle Sampson hadn’t taken me in charge. I’m sure- 
I never could take care of myself.” And there was a little pathetic 
picture of perfect helplessness and child-like innocency of the ways 
by which to win .through this weary world, that made Gordon 
Tynsdell think “ What a silly little thing it is. It was uncommonly 
lucky that dear Uncle Sampson did take charge of her.” 

The “silly little thing” went on, — 

“Polly -was always so clever and so energetic. Hobody could 
ever feel any anxiety on her account; and then there’s her cousin 
in India, you know\” 

“ What cousin?” And then there came that fierce, eager look in 
Gordon Tynsdell’s face which Polly had noted with such anxious 
eyes. 

“ Hasn’t she ever told you? Oh no!” with a little silvery^ girlish 
laugh ; ‘ ‘ that’s not a thing she would be likely to speak about.. 
And, perhaps, I ought not to say anything about it either; but I’m 
the worst in the world for keeping secrets. There, I ought not ta 
have said anything about it now. Please to forget that I’ve said a 
wmrd.” 

“Am I to understand, Mrs. Brooke,” and the eager interest in 
the face, which Polly was Avatching with such unquiet eyes, deep- 
ened; “ami to understand that Miss Brooke is engaged to the 
cousin of whom you speak?” 

“Did I say so? Oh, why did Polly trust her secrets to me? 
She knows that I never can keep my own; though I don’t know, 
really,” said Amanda, putting on a sagely reflective air that would 
not have disgraced a baby six months old, “ that ever I had one in 
my life. Ho, I don’t say that there is an engagement ; still, cousins 
that are only cousins don’t look ready to break their hearts at part- 


133 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 

inff, and Keep up a constant correspondence, do they, Mr. Tyns- 
dell? Well, never mind. If you don’t Say a word to Polly, there’s 
no great harm done; and India’s the right place for making money; 
and if ho can’t come and fetch Polfy, why Polly can go out to 
him. Oh dear! the voj^age would kill me". And to go out to be 
married! Oh! 1 could never do that; but Polly wouldn’t mind in 
the least. Polly always was, from a child, so perfectly able to take 
care of herself.” 

Was this little woman lying, with those guileless eyes, and that 
pretty rosebud mouth, and those words that were poured out so- 
delicately? Or was the girl on wliose truth and loyalty he could 
have staked his soul an hour ago a desperate, hardened flirt, leading; 
one man on day after day while she was plighted to another? Polly 
Brooke base, heartless, vile, untrue? If she were so, he would 
nev(r have faith in woman again! 

He couldn’t think it! He wouldn’t think it! This little creat- 
ure was making the most of some idle boy and girl nonsense. She 
did not say there was an engairement, after all. Amanda saw the 
doubt and hesitation written in his face, and understood it. It 
wanted but another lie to drive the nail home securely. And 
Amanda would have told a dozen lies for a much smaller end than she 
had now in view. “ It is an engagement,” she said, slowly, as- 
suming for the moment an air that was almost grave and matronly; 
” only Polly doesn’t like it to be talked about. They must v,ait; 
it wouldn’t he prudent to marry yet; and Polly was always such a. 
careful little soul you know.” 

Careful and clever! Ho doubt of it! Careful euough to keep ber 
engagement hidden in case a better chance should come in her way, 
and clever enough to lure him on, and make him think she was that 
rare prize, a good, true, single-hearted girl, whom he might win, if 
he pleased, for himself. And then, in confirmation strong of Mrs. 
Brooke’s words, he remembered one morning when he had paid his 
usual visit to Mrs. Danvers, who was more querulous and restless 
than usual: Miss Pembury bad come into the room, and ber aunt,, 
turning to her, bad asked, with some irritability, after Miss Brooke. 
“ She has not been near me this morning, and there was that book 
from Mudie's I wanted ber to finish, and at least three letters to 
write for me. How can I keep up with people, Millicent, if Miss 
Brooke neglects me in this manner?” 

And he remembered very clearly Miss Pembury’s answer. Her 
eyes hsd brightened, and her lips smiled while she spoke, as if there 
was some secret between herself and Miss Brooke. Auntie, Polly 
has a letter of her own to write, and she wants to finish it in time 
for the Indian mail. If you remember, she received one from India 
yesterday.” 

And Mrs. Danvers had muttered something queruously, to the 
effect that Miss Brooke should remember her time was not alto- 
gether at her own disposal; and Miss Pembury had stopped the 
sentence before it was completed, by offering to finish the book and 
write the letters herself, if Polly were not shortly disengaged. 

He had never thought of that long Indian letter till now, that its 
remembrance came as a proof of the truth of Mrs. Brooke’s ;ivords; 


134 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


and the girl who had been writing it had come from her task, and 
shaken hands with liim before he left the liouse, thinking, no 
"doubt, that if the cousin in India did not make money quickly 
enough, she would make sure of a husband here. She had looked 
so happy that day. Every little incident of his visit now flashed on 
his memory. Miss Pembury had asked her if she had finished her 
letter, and she had smiled her brightest when she said, “ Yes,’’ — 
smiling to think how she was befooling the two wretched fellows 
Who had trusted in her! 

And there was just one little, tiny grain of truth in all this bushel 
of falsehood. Polly had a cousin in India, several years older than 
herself; and they had been very fond of each other in big brother 
and little sister fashion. He Jiad left England five years ago, and 
Polly had cried a great deal at the parting; and cousin Tom’s own 
eyes had not been quite dry, and he had kissed Polly very affection- 
ately when he went away; and Polly, in all simplicity, had kissed 
him back; and they had promised to correspond regularly. But 
Polly had never looked upon her cousin as her lover, and to him 
she had only been one of the sagest and sweetest of little sisters; 
and this very letter, from the writing of which she had come with 
sparkling eyes and smiling face, as if from the execution of a task 
which was a pleasure, had been one of congratulation on his ap- 
proaching marriage. Millicent knew all about cousin Tom, and 
Polly had read to her the letter she had received from him, in which 
he announced his engagement to the sister of an old friend. “ And 
dear old Tom will have somebody to look after him, now; and 1 
shall feel when he brings her to England, which he talks of doing 
in a year or two, as if he had given me a new sister/"' And it was 
the warm sympathy and the innocent happiness of the two girls 
that Gordon Tynsdell was misinterpreting to his own misery. • 

Amanda kept him by her side for the next hour or two. It was 
less trouble being with her than with any one else. She chatted 
and prattled, and did not care if he kept silent; and after a while 
he went away, saying he had some patients to attend. Then 
Amanda went in search of Polly. A girl may feel that her heart is 
crushed within her, and that all the joy, and the sweetness, and 
glow has gone out of her life, and yet she cannot sit dowm and be- 
moan her lot before two or three hundred people. Neither can she 
hurry away, like a stricken deer, when the duties of her position 
require that she should keep a smiling face, and mix with a crowd 
of gay people, for the especial purpose of making herself agreeable. 
Besides, Polly was a brave little creature, and she wouid rather 
have died than have disgraced herself by any display of weakness, 
Amanda found her looking rather pale, but she was talking pleas- 
antly enough to some old lady, who had seamed to be rather left 
out in the cold. Even in this, which seemed the very crisis of her 
life, when she was dazed and shamed with the misery that had 
come upon her, Polly’s instinctive kindness did not desert her. 
Presently the old iady saw her daughters in the distance, and went 
toward them, thinking Miss Brooke one of the pleasantest and best- 
mannered girls she had ever met with. Then Amanda felt secure 
of her victim. 

“ Ybu look dreadfully pale, Polly. 1 dare say that old lady has 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 135 

bored you. 1 feel bored too. Mr. Tynsdell has gone to some 
patients. And it’s very dull for me now. isn’t it?” 

” I should think, Amanda, if your children are as ill as you say, 
you would feel somethiog worse than dull; or does Mr. Tynsdell 
make amends for all?” 

“ Polly, you’re ill-natured, and remind me of my troubles. You 
might let me have just this one happy day. I’m sure happy days 
are not so plentiful with me. You don’t know how dreadfully 
I’ve been fretting about those dear lambs.” 

” Is Mr. Tynsdell aware of their existence?” asked Polly sharply. 

“Between ourselves, Polly, he is,” said Amanda, who, now'she 
had begun to tell stories, felt quite disposed to goon. “ But we 
say nothing about it at present — 1 mean about the children or any- 
thing else.” Amanda felt she was rather vague in her pronouns, 
but grammar mattered little so long as Polly understood her meaning. 
“ People are so ill-natured and curious, and they wouldn’t underr 
stand that I am consulting m)^ children’s best interests in devoting 
myself to Uncle Sampson. And so Mr. Tynsdell and 1 have agreed 
to say nothing about the children — nor— nor about anything else. 
We want it all kept quiet for the present. Nothing will take place 
just yet. Besides, I think it is only due to your poor father’s mem- 
ory that 1 should remain unmarried for two years after my bereave- 
ment.” 

“I’m sure my poor father would feel flattered, Amanda, if he 
could only hear you,” said Polly. “ And I must say you’ve borne 
your bereavement wonderfull}^ well. I’m sure 1 wish you joy — 
and Mr. Tynsdell too.” 

There was a slight dash of contempt in her tons as she looked on 
Amanda, and thought of how little joy any man would have in 
her. If, indeed, she had wished to punish Gordon Tynsdell for his 
treachery to her, could, she have chosen a worse fate for him than 
the one he had selected for himself? 

CHAPTEPt XXVII 

SUSAN’S LETTER. 

What an unutterable relief it was to Polly when that long day, 
with its crowd and its music, was over, and she could shut herself 
up in her own room with her misery. But the misery was not the 
worst part of it. She felt as if she could have borne her sufferings 
better if they had come in any other form. If Gordon Tynsdell had 
only died, so long as she had known him true, and loyal, and worthy 
')f her love, that would have seemed so small a thing to this. He 
would still have been her very own, her hero above all others, her 
saint in heaven, as he had been her prince on earth. Till now it 
had never seemed as if she had known how much she cared for him, 
how happy she had been in the thought of his caring for her. And 
she felt shamed in her own eyes. She had either deceived herself 
all along, and been a bold, forward girl, taking a man’s ordinary 
attentions as so many declarations of love; or he whom she had 
thought worthy of her love had proved himself to be that mean, 


136 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


heartless thing — a male flirt. Re had been amusing himself with 
her, while wooing Amanda in earnest. 

“ I wouldn’t have belie\^ed it if I hadn’t seen him with my own 
eyes; but to let himself be carried off, taken possession of by her — 
and what lie muBt be to let Amanda claim him!” 

She felt shamed for herself, hut she felt ashamed for Gordon 
Tynsdell too. That he could stoop to so poor a thing as she knew 
her father’s widow to be! That Amanda should have eclipsed her 
was humiliation enough on her own account, but what could Gor- 
don Tynsdell be to set Amanda in her place? 

“ I suppose it’s her prettiness does it,” she cried, looking sorrow- 
fully in the glass at her owm tear-stained face; “and she is very, 
very pretty, there’s no denying that. But did I ever think that 
beauty alone would satisfy such a man as 1 thought him to be? 
Well, it satisfied my poor father for a time. Amanda won him 
with nothing but her face, and she is prettier now than she was 
then! And 1 wonder how long it will be before he finds, as did 
poor papa, that the prettiest doll in the world is not \vorth much as 
a wife!” 

But the contemplation of Gordon Tynsdell’s future misery did 
not lessen her own present sufferings. It was no use shutting her 
eyes to the fact that she had learned to love him very dearl}", and 
to feel a happy securily in his love. That she had let her mind 
dwell upon her future as his wife; that she had pictured herself 
sharing his home, helping him, working with him and for him; that 
she had thought of him as never, never more could she think of any 
man again. And he did not care for her; he never had cared for 
her, or only with such an idle, careless liking as he might give to 
any girl that came in his way. What a dreadful, awful mistake. 
What a humiliation! She was shamed in her own eyes. And to be 
put aside for such a one as Amanda! 

Polly had little sleep that night, and she arose in the morning, 
pale, heavy-eyed, and unrefreshed. What a different world it was 
to what it had seemed four-and tw^enty hours before! 

“ And it bas to be lived in all the same,” moaned Polly. “ Has 
to be lived in,” she repeated, passionately; “ and I will live in it! 
I could tell Millicent to be strong and brave under her trouble, and 
not to let her love for one who w^as not worth it spoil her life. I’ll 
follow the advice 1 gave her, if 1 can; only,” she added, with a 
rueful smile, “ it’s easier sometimes to give counsel than to act on 
it.” 

She dressed herself with unusual care that day. “ I won’t look 
a love-lorn damsel if 1 can help it,” she said; “ and as to being pale, 
tliat will only be set down to my exertions yesterday. Oh! 1 did 
exert myself! I think tliat was the hardest day’s work of all my 
life; but there are many such hard days yet to come.” 

Even Millicent, dearly as she loved her, should not know her 
secret. “ She is as good as a sister; but I could not have told a 
sister, no, nor a mother, if I had one, such a thing as this,” thought 
Polly. “ Oh! to think of my being such a love-sick little fool! 1 
could hate myself for it! Only I must pity myself too. I must have 
my own pity, for I can ask no one else’s.” 

Millicent had been a little perplexed by what she had seen the 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


137 


precedine; day. She had been very much occupied, but not so 
mucli so but that she could see that Mr. Tynsdell was paying very 
mucli more attention to Polly's step-mamma than to Polly herself; 
and for some time past it had seemed to Millicent as if Polly was 
likely to find her best happiness in marriage, after all And Milli- 
cent bad been very much pleased at the thought. Polly would al- 
ways be near her; and, with such a husband as Gordon Tynsdell 
promised to make, could not be otherwise than happy. Millicent 
had planned it all out, and dwelt on her friend’s future with much 
satisfaction. And now, how was it that this little Mrs. Brooke, with 
her mincing ways and childish speech, was to spoil all the picture? 

Had they had a quarrel, and had the little widow sought to make 
her own profit out of it? — Millicent did not like Mrs. Brooke; very 
few women did; but, then, pretty faces and childish manners don’t 
go so far with women as with their lords — or had Gordon Tynsdell 
proposed, and had Polly been so perversely bent on carrying out 
her views of the superiority of a single life to a married one as to 
refuse him? The bare supposition made Millicent quite angry with 
her friend. And if Gordon Tynsdell had proposed he had no right 
to expect a refusal. Polly had not shown her liking for him in any 
unmaidenly or improper way, but still the fact, of her liking him 
liad^been sufficiently clear. 

Mdlicent was puzzled and troubled, and she shrank from going to 
Polly and asking for an explanation. “ If she thinks right to tell 
me anything it will be told,” was her thought; ” and if not, it will 
seem as if 1 were presuming on our respective positions in asking 
her.” 

Mrs. Danvers was down late the morning after the fete, and she 
was cross and slightly bilious; and Millicent was watching her 
friend; and Polly was trying to look careless and at ease, doing her 
best to laugh and talk, and with a great dread all the time lest she 
should break down and cry. The breakfast-table, on the whole, 
would have been rather a dull one had it not been for the arrival of 
the post-bag, of which Mrs. Danvers still retained the key. 

She had ofifererd to surrender this and several other keys, when 
Millicent'became one-and-twenty ; but, just then, Millicent was dis- 
posed to shrink from any extra care or responsibility, and she had 
accordingly requested her aunt to retain them, which Mrs. Danvers, 
after a little speech about being always ready to make any sacrifice 
of her leisure on dear Millicent’s behalf, consented to do. But, in- 
deed, these keys, which were such as the master or the mistress of 
the Hall had always had in his or her own keeping, made the music 
of Mrs. Danvers’s life. 

” A letter for you. Miss Brooke,” she said, glancing at it with a 
little supercilious surprise. “ A petition from one of your 'protegees 
in the village, I should think — only that it bears the London post- 
mark.” 

Polly took up the letter. The envelope was pale pink, and not 
very clean. The handwriting was an angular scrawl, and it was 
directed to “ miss Brooke, the hall, rad 103% liei tfordshire,” the only 
capital being the one that commenced her name. The inside of the 
letter was in keeping with the envelope. The paper was a pale 


138 


SOME OF O'UR GIRLS. 


blue, lined, and smelling detestably of musk, and it began thus, 
“ dear miss Brooke.” 

Polly looked at the signature, and, as she had thought at the first 
glance, saw that her correspondent was Susan. 

Susan wrote to say that her mother wished to give up the charge 
of the baby, though verj sorry to part with it; but an uncle of 
Susan's, in the fried -fish way, wished Mrs Smith to keep house for 
him, having lately lost his wife. Her sister would go with her 
mother, but Susan would remain in service “ for the present. ” There 
was a dash under ‘‘ the present,'' which was meant to imply that 
Susan intended shortly to settle in matrimony; the last young man 
with whom she had kept company having made a formal offer of 
himself and his weekly earnings of a pound a-week. Susan was at 
present in service at Kensington, -which she preferred very much to 
Wurtemburg Street, “ as being genteeler.” Madge had left Mrs. 
Williams’s six weeks after Susan did. The new cook had gone on 
at her for coming out of the workhus, and Madge wouldn’t stand 
it. But she ought to have remembered that it wasn’t everybody, 
born respectable, that would put up with workhus company as she, 
Susan, had done. She believed Madge was in a lodging-house, or 
some place of not much account; but, of course, it wasn’t to be 
expected that she could get into a real good house as Susan had 
done, and could do again any day. Susan sent her duty to Miss 
Pembury, and mother would be glad to hear from her about the 
baby. 

Polly handed the letter to Millicent, and Millicent read it, and 
then gave it back, looking helplessly at her. 

“ Whatever is to be done with the child?” she said. 

Polly laughed— this time a healthy, natural lausrh. There was 
something for her to do — something helpless to be cared for. The 
trouble that, a little while back, had seemed to be darkening the 
whole world, cleared off into the background. “ I suppose we must 
bring it down liere,” she said, “ and begin a little farming out on 
our own account.” 

‘‘If we could find anybody to take it,” said Millicent, doubt- 
fully. 

” There are three houses, in any one of which, 1 should say, it 
would be welcome for even less money than you pay Mrs. Smith, 
if that were a consideration,” said Polly. “ There’s Mrs. Steene, 
whose last son is married, and whose last girl has gone to service. 
There’s old Mrs. Bray, who would be very glad of such, an eke out 
to her little earnings; and there’s Mrs. Henderson, whose youngest 
jiving child is seven years old, and whose baby died six months 
ago. Ill any one of these houses our poor little waif would be looked 
upon as a godsend. 1 was going to ask you to apply to the Union 
for some babies to put in them.” 

“ The workhouse is the proper place for pauper children,” said 
Mrs. Danvers, sententiously. ” 1 hope. Miss Brooke, you won’t 
be putting it into Millicent’s head to turn Radley into a nursery for 
them. I’m sure it was a thousand pities she didn’t let this wretched 
little creature go there at once. It will be a trouble to her all her life 
most likely, for it’s impossible to tell how it may grow up.” 

“Into a human being, 1 hope and trust,” said Polly; “she 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


139 


thought of Madge as she spoke—of Madge, who had seemed noth- 
ing but a living, breathing machine, with some capacity for work 
in her, till a baby cry and a baby’s fingers had woke the biped soul 
within to some faint life. Better, a thousand times better, that this 
little one should have died, than have lived to grow into another 
Madge, or into such an outcast as the lost thing she had seen her 
talking to under the railway arch. And then, at the thought of that 
evening, upon which somehow she had acquired a habit of looking 
back to as the happiest one in all her life, there came a dull, dead 
pain. Gordon Tynsdell had passed out of her life. Oh! if she 
had never seen him! Oh! to have been as senseless and as torpid 
as another Madge, so as to have escaped this pain! And yet no — 
no- 7 -a thousand times no! Better to suffer, struggle, and endure, so 
that there was the power of suffering, of struggling, and of endur- 
ance. Better to have the human heart, although stricken to the 
death, the human soul, although cushed, and shamed, and humbled 
to the dust, than to feel as if one had no heart with which to suffer, 
and no soul with which to bear! 

“ But we have got to jret the baby here,” said Millicent, after a 
pause. ” Most practical of Paulines, how is that to be done?” 

” Wouldn’t the simplest way be for me to fetch it?” asked 
Polly. ” It would be very little trouble on the railway.” 

” Miss Pembury could hardly allow you to appear in the char- 
acter of a nursemaid,” said Mrs. Danvers, loftily; ” but I can’t see 
why some other home, if Millicent persists in hei freak of adopting 
it, shouldn’t be found for it in London.” 

” 1 would rather have the little one under my own eye,” said 
Millicent, ” as Mrs. Smith is about to give up the charge of it. 
1 have a special interest in it, not merely on its own account. I 
should never have known Polly if it had not been for that little 
creature. We were such perfect strangers till the morning that baby 
came.” 

Mrs. Danvers thought it would have been just as well if Miss 
Pembury never had known Miss Brooke. Mrs. Danvers, being now 
so much better as not to have any great need of Miss Brooke’s serv- 
ices. 

” But, as aunt says, we musn’t turn you into a nursemaid, 
Polly,” continued Millicent. ” Mary, the under housemaid, shall 
go with yon. She has had plenty to do with children in her own 
home, and will be delighted to say she has been in London, if only 
for an hour, and that at the East-End. And when shall you go?” 

” To-morrow, if you can spare me,” said Polly, promptly. ” And 
would you like me to go to the village, to make arrangements for 
its reception, to-day?” 

‘‘ I will go with you/’ replied Millicent; ” and we will have the 
pony-chaise, and call and see how Mrs. Gordon is. 1 promised to 
let her know how \hQfUe went off.” 

But it was not only on Mrs. Gordon’s account that Millicent chose 
to keep with her friend to da}^ There was that in Polly’s face, 
when it was at rest, which she had never seen before. She was 
prompt, thoughtful, energetic, full of resource as usual when ap- 
pealed to, but the moment she was left to herself, a cloud seemed to 
come over the face which had hitherto been so sunshiny and spark- 


140 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


ling. A cloud like that which had settled on Millicent’s own such 
a iiltle time back, and which might have been there still it Polly’s 
hand had not cleared it away. 


CHAPTER XXVllI. 

VERY HARD TO BEAR. 

“We will settle about baby first,” said Millicent. “Business 
first always; isn’t that your maxim, Polly?” 

And Polly smiled, and did her best to look as if nothing ailed 
her; and still Millicent was not satisfied. The smile was on the 
lips only. Polly’s eyes were dim and grave, as she had never, seen 
them yet. “ If she would only tell me — oh! if she would only tell 
me!” thought Millicent. “ How could I ever liave gone living on 
if 1 had not had her to speak to?” 

But baby had to be thought of just then. Millicent knew that 
Polly would have disdained to speak of any troubles of her own 
while that weighty piece of business was in hand, and after due 
consideration, the preference was given to Mrs. Henderson, as be- 
ing likely to furnish baby with ready-made brothers and sisters, as 
well as parents. Mrs. Henderson was ready to undertake the charge 
— indeed, charmed to do so. “She had felt very lonesome since 
her baby died; there seemed nothing to fill up her time, like. The 
last child was so well out of hand, going to school regular, and in- 
deed Susy would be glad of a little sister, for she was mopish now 
there was no baby in the house. It did a girl like that a deal o’ 
good to have a little one to look arter between her school-hours; 
they liked it better than the best doll you could buy at a fair.” 

So baby was likely to find a whole set of relatives, and instead of 
being one of a multitude, fed, clothed, and taught by rule, it would 
gro"w up in the warm atmosphere of a household; be kissed and 
scolded by Mrs. Henderson as she would have kissed and scolded 
one of her own; whipped, may be, when it grew into whipping age 
— homely housewives like Mrs. Henderson have great faith in an 
occasional “spanking;” petted by the girls, who would feel as if 
they were its sisters; teazed by the boys as if they had the rights 
of brothers. It would be regarded as if it were a human being in- 
stead of an infinitesimal portion of a great mass of pauj:)erism. 
“ There will be just all the difference betw^een its bringing up and 
what it would have had in the workhouse,” said Polly, “ that there 
is in a chicken’s being hatched by a clacking, scratching, feathered 
mamma, and being brought out of the shell by the Egyptian process 
of the oven.” 

Polly was quite herself when speaking of baby. Full, too, of 
concern about Madge. “ That ^irl weighs on my mind. 1 wrote 
twice to her after I came here, but I suppose she did not care to 
write back again. I ought to have looked to her a little more while 
I was at Mrs. Williams’s. But indeed 1 gave her very little thought 
till the baby came and woke her up to life. 1 had so much to do 
with those children, and poor Mrs. Williams was so glad to have 
some one about her who was handy at needlework. If it had been 
at the Hall, where I seem to have time for everything—” 


SOME OF OUli GIKLS. 141 

“ And 1 sometimes fancy I am killing you with work/’ said Milli- 
cent. 

“ Work never kills,” said Polly; but the brightness left her eyes 
as she spoke, and there came a look in them which seemed as if she 
had thought of something surer than work to kill. 

Mrs. Gordon was very pleased to hear all they had to tell of the 
fete. ” 1 knew it would be a success,” she said, ” and it deserved 
to be. I am very glad, Milly, you have shown your richer neigh- 
bors you are aware of your duties to them as well as to your poorer 
ones.” 

As to the arrangements for the baby, Mrs. Gordon entered into 
them with all her heart. But, perhaps, it was not the little waif oi 
whom she thought so much, as she did of the girl upon whose life 
a blight had fallen so early. Anything to keep her from brooding 
over that, or from flinging* her life away, as she had thought of do- 
ing. To have heard Mrs. Gordon’s practical questions about all 
things connected with baby’s welfare, and Mrs. Henderson’s fitness 
for her charge, no one could have guessed what a dark shadow lay 
in the background of her life. And yet that shadow was so great, 
her sense of shame so keen, that if she had been a selfish woman, 
wrapped up in her own grief and her own humiliation, she could 
hardly have gone on living. Polly saw this to-day more keenly 
than she had ever done. Millicent had taken the lesson of Mrs. 
Gordon’s life to herself long since. Polly felt as if to-day she had 
only begun to learn it. 

Polly thought she was playing her own part admirably. To have 
heard her talk, it would have seemed as if the baby was paramount 
with*her. And, indeed, she did feel a very srreat interest in it, but 
she flagged ever and again; that dead, dull weight at her heart 
would make itself felt again and yet again. Something was wrong 
with her, Mrs. Gordon saw. She had grown to be fond of Polly. 
Affection was always a growth with Mrs. Gordon. She had neither 
sudden fancies nor intuitive dislikes. And, slowly and deliberately, 
she had come to like Polly very much; first on Millicent’s account, 
then on her ow'u, and lastly on Gordon Tynsdell’s. More and more 
she had taken him to her heart, in place of the son she had lost, 
and it had seemed to her that if she had to choose from all the 
world, she could find no better wife than Pauline Brooke for him. 
And something was wrong with the girl to-day. Perhaps some 
home-trouble — poor relations in need or in sickness. "Whatever it 
was, il would be well for Millicent and her to know it, and help her 
for Gordon’s sake. That the trouble should arise from Gordon 
himself was the last thought that would have occurred to her. 

Mrs. Gordon always kissed Millicent when they met and parted. 
A kiss, with her, meant very much, for she was not childishly pro- 
fuse with her caresses, as are some. But to-day she drew Polly to 
her and kissed her too, with the same loving, motherly tenderness 
she had shown Millicent. Polly felt choking. What did the kiss 
mean? Was it given her in pity for Gordon’s desertion? How she 
longed— she, the motherless girl, who had never known a mother — 
to fling herself on Mrs. Gordon’s bosom, and moan out her grief. 

” You must take care of Polly,” said Mrs. Gordon to Millicent, 
^nd she gave a look which Polly did not see; ” she has been over- 


142 SOME OF OUH GIRLS. 

exerting herself, I am afraid. IVe must not let her go to London, 
even after baby, till she is better.” 

But the look, which Millicent perfectly understood, told her that 
there was something more the matter than over-exertion, and she 
must learn what it was. 

Millicent drove gently on, down a pretty, narrow lane, with the 
banks growing as high on either side as if they had been in Devon. 
Through the overhanging branches of the trees ihe sun’s rays came 
with 8 softened light, and the pony seemed to think he had a right 
to wend his way at a leisurely pace, that his mistress and her friend 
might the better enjoy the soft, still sweetness of the autumn day. 
Puck was a clever pony, and knew by some instinct how to suit his 
pace to his driver’s mood. He always went at a good pace along 
the dry, uninteresting high road, but in the village, where every 
one was on the lookout for Miss Pembury, and bows and greetings^ 
had to be exchanged, or in such a lane as this, where blackberry 
brambles thrust their ripening fruit almost into their laps as the 
girls drove on, and wild flowers were almost asking to be gathered, 
Puck went as leisurely as if he liked to show his hearty approval of 
all the amenities of life, and his sincere admiration of the beauties 
of nature as shown in a Hertfordshire lane. 

But at one point the lane was crossed by another, and. Puck still 
ambling along at his own pace, the ladies behind him had plenty of 
time to see two figures coming toward them down this other lane. 
Mrs. Brooke, in the prettiest of morning walking dresses, with hat, 
and gloves, and boots, all so perfect that the only fault was they 
were too elaborate for the country, was slowly pacing the green- 
sward, and by her side walked Gordon Tynsdell, with his eyes bent 
down on her upturned face. 

It was the merest accident that he had met her. He had got up 
that morning in an evil frame of mind, feehng at odds with the 
whole world, but especially with Pauline Brooke. He had chosen 
to walk instead of driving tc his patients, partly because his horse 
would be the better for a rest, and partly because so he hoped to lay 
the evil spirit that was in him. And he had come across Mrs. 
Brooke, who was walking off a little headache, and, as their road 
lay together, and as he had gone his morning round, which hap- 
pened that day to be a short one, there was no reason that he should 
hurry on, and leave the lady to continue her walk alone. And, if 
she looked up in his face, how could he do otherwise than look 
down, especially when that upturned face was such a pretl}' onef 
He was sore, and chafed, and hurt, and the flattery of Amanda’s 
ways and looks was very pleasant to him. She was a silly, simple 
little thing, in his opinion; but, at least, she was amusing, and 
would not lead him to expect everything from her only to deceive 
him,— and that was what Polly had done. He had thought her all 
that a woman should be, truthful and tender, but firm and helpful; 
prompt and clever, and yet so sweet and womanly in all her ways. 
And how she had deceived him! Could he ever trust in woman- 
more? Never, he said, in the bitterness of his soul, unless tbs 
woman was as transparent a fool as the one he looked upon. 

Puck looked down the lane up which these two were coming, as 
if to take in the whole situation. Mrs. Brooke smiled sweetly, and 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


143 

bowed to Miss Pembiiry, giving Polly afterward the friendliest of 
nodds. Mr. Tynsdell removed his hat with all due courtesy, and, 
ns the ladies in the pon 3 ^-chaise bowed, Puck was startled by a flick 
of the whip, so smart as to send him home at unusual speed. Milli- 
cent did not look at her friend, but Puck at once understood what 
was wanted of him, and in another five minutes his mistress was at 
her own door. 

Both girls ran up-stairs without a word being exchanged. Not 
one bad been uttered since that vision of the fair Amanda had 
crossed their path. But, as Polly turned into her room, Millicent 
caught sight of her face, so gray, so joyless, so different from its 
usual innocent rosy brightness, that it seemed impossible to pass on 
and leave her. She followed her into the room, and closed the 
door; then put her arms around her. 

“ Polly,— what is it? AVon’t you tell me?’* 

There was a hard, dry sob, as if the girl were gasping and strug- 
gling for breath, and then the words came out painfully, — 

“ I have nothing to tell, Millicent.” 

That was tlie shame of it. This man had made her love him, and 
yet said no word of love. Bhe was humbled in her own eyes— more 
angry with herself than with him. 

“ What is it that is wrong between Mr. Tymsdell and you?” asked 
Millicent. ‘‘How has Mrs. Brooke come between you? AVhat 
does it all mean?” she persisted. 

‘‘ It means that 1 have been a fool— oh! such an utter, utter fool!” 
cried Polly, passionately, and then, burying her face in her hands, 
she cried bitterly. ‘‘ I have thought Mr. Tynsdell cared for me a 
little — and I have been weak enough to care for him. That’s all, 
Millicent, and I am ashamed to say it.” 

‘‘ We all thought the. same as you did.” said Millicent, gravely. 
“ Aunt Danvers, Mrs. Gordon, and I; There is some mistake, or 
misunderstanding, and Mrs. Brooke is connected with it. I don’t 
like jmur step-mamma, Polly.” 

‘‘ But she will make Mr. Tynsdell like her, and that is more to 
her purpose,” said Polly, forcing her tears back. ‘‘Millicent, if 
ever he did care for me, and I think, from what you say, he must 
have done so a little — you couldn’t all have been deceived— she has 
won him from me; yes, she has wmn him,” said Polly, with a rue- 
ful smile. ” Amanda is not so silly as you think. She was always 
•clever enough to get her own way in everything.” 

” If 1 could only help you — if I could only comfort you,” cried 
Millicent. She wanted to say a great deal, and could hardly utter 
a word. Polly had dene so much for her — been her ver\^ salvation 
when she was sinking into the slough of despondency— and she 
could do nothing in return. ‘‘ If 1 could only help you,” she said 
again, and the tears were in her eyes. 

‘‘ You do help me, and you have helped me,” said Poll.y, kissing 
her; ” and 1 have been very silly; and I don’t think Mr. Tynsdell 
is to blame. We were all in too much of a hurry, and he has 
changed his mind — that is all. Please, Millicent, w’o’ll say no more 
about it. I’ve boon very foolish, and I want to forget my folly us 
soon as possible; and — and — there’s the luncheon-bell ringing, 
dear.” 


144 SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 

And Polly began, folding her gloves and putting away her hat 
with exemplary care. 

Can you come down, dear?” said Millicent, with tender wist- 
fulness. 

She could not comprehend Polly. Her cheeks were burning 
now, and her eyes were bright, and there was a desperate calmness 
about her. 

“ Why not? 1 shall come down, and I shall eat and drink — 
somehow. Millicent, if Mrs. Danvers thinks that Mr. Tynsdell was 
ever glad to come here on my account, I won't have her think that 
1 could lose my luncheon because 1 have found that he only comes 
on hers. When one sees that one has been a fool, things won’t be 
better by sitting down to bemoan one’s folly.” 

” You were not to blame. There was only one interpretation that 
could be put upon Mr. Tynsdell’s manner.” 

” Yes, and that was the wrong one. We’ve all been making a- 
paistake.” 

” And it is so hard upon. you, dear,” said Millicent pitifully. 

” Yes, it 'is hard, but it has to be borne,” said Polly; then, after 
a pause, ” I’ve had a great many hard things to bear in my life, but 
this aeems about the hardest of aii.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

WURTEMBUEG STREET AGAIN. 

Mrs. Williams sat in the dingy dining-room at Wurtemburg 
Street. She was tiirninir one of her old dresses into a frock for one 
of the children. She had a great deal of such work to do now — 
very much more than when Polly was with her; for her present 
nurserj 'governess— the third in succession since Polly had left— 
was not very expert al her needle. Poor Mrs. Williams looked 
worn and harassed with petty cares and small anxieties. Every- 
thing was rising — butchers’ meat, servants’ wages — everything but 
doctors’ fees. The constant struggle to make both ends meet, and 
to keep up appearances, was telling more and more upon her. But 
it never occurred to her that in marrying for a livelihood she had 
chosen the very hardest way of getting one. 

She was expecting Polly every minute. It had been arranged 
that Polly was to rest and sleep one night at her house before taking 
the baby from Mrs. Smith’s maternal care. Millicent had wished 
Polly to defer the journey to town for two or three days, till — till 
she was a little better, she said, not knowing exactly how to frame 
her meaning. For it seemed to Millicent, who had gone through 
the whole process of a heart-break herself, that to go straight on 
with the ordinary duties of life after such a blow as "Polly had re- 
ceived was not to be thought of. Polly had a right to feel prostrat- 
ed, and to require petting, and soothing, and all manner of tender 
assiduities, for a little while, at least. But Polly would not be 
petted. When Millicent talked of the journey to town being too 
much for her, and that if she performed it all it had bettei not be 
just yet, something of her meaning flashed upon Polly — more. 


SOME OF OER GIRLS. 


145 


through the tender, tremulous tones and the pitiful eyes, however, 
than the spoken words. And the two girls being alone, Polly 
caught her friend’s hands, and, holding them firmly, said, “ What- 
ever has to be done I must do, Millicent, dear, and shall be the bet- 
ter for doing it. I have to go on living just the same as if I hadn’t 
been so silly as to make such a miserable mistake. And ofi, please, 
please try to forget that I ever did make it, and then, perhaps, in 
time I may forget it too. ” 

It was clear that heart-break was a luxury Poll 3 ^ did not intend to 
indulge in. 

Presently a cabman's knock sounded at the door, and Mrs. Will- 
iams dropped her work in a flutter, and in another minute Polly 
was lighting up the dingy, somber room, and kissing Mrs. Williams. 
She had brought a huge bunch of flowers; dahlias, geraniums, ver- 
benas; and tliese, and Polly’s brown bright face, — for the summer 
sun had left traces of his kisses on her, — glorified the room, and gave 
something of an electric glow even to Mrs. Williams’s torpid sensi- 
bilities. Mary, who had come with Polly, was dispatched into the 
kitchen, but there was a whole hamper of pears, and apples, and 
pots of jam, and punnets of peaches and apricots, to be unpacked. 
Millicent had gathered the more aristocratic fruit with her own 
bauds, and arranged them in their shallow baskets, lined with vine- 
leaves. It was as pretty work as gathering flowers. But she had 
hesitated about sending the pears and apples, — “ they are such com- 
mon things,” she said. 

“ And very few of these common things do the little Williamses 
see in their nursery,” said Polly, ‘‘ and few and far between are 
their apple-puddings. Miss Pernbury of The Hall has very little 
notion of what a hard fight her cousin has, who is genteel and poor.” 

” And the apples and pears that we have w^asted instead of send- 
ing them to poor cousin Sarah!” cried Millicent. “ But you think 
of everything, Polly, — of everything but yourself,” she, added, 
tenderly. 

And just now Polly felt that the less she did think of herself the 
better it would be for her. 

When the flowers had been arranged, and the contents of the ham- 
per disposed of, and the little Williamses kissed, and hugged, and 
kissed again, and given a taste of the good things that Polly had 
brought, and Polly’s own traveling dress changed for a fresh pretty 
muslin, that in itself lit up the meager dining-room as much as did 
the flowers she had placed there, she sat down to sew and talk with 
Mrs. Williams. ” It was so like old times,” the poor hard -worked 
lady said, with a faint sigh, ” to seeker,” as Polly possessed herself 
of the little frock wdiich the other was manipulating not ton skill- 
fully. 

“ 1 do miss you so dreadfully, Polly,” said Mrs. Williams. ” Of 
course I know that it is an excellent thing for you, being with Miss 
Pernbury, but still I do miss you, and Miss Greene is so idle, and so 
vulgar, and the children’s grammar is dreadful.” 

Ihirty years ago Miss Greene, a very small tradesm.an's daughter, 
would have thought herself fortunate in obtaining a nursemaid’s 
place ill such a genteel house as Mrs. Williams’s. But the Miss 
Greenes of to-day have advanced with the times, and disdaining 


146 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


service, however weL paid, prefer to take a position in the lower 
rank of governesses, with small profit to themselves, and less to their 
pupils. 

“And Ihaven’tbeen tosay suited with servants since Susan Smith 
left me. She was pert, and slighted her work, as they all do, but 
still she was willing aud good-natured, and a treasure when Tommy 
had the measles, just after you left. But she wanted to better her- 
self; they’re all mad nowadays to go to the West-End. And then 
Madge couldn’t get on with the next cook, and that just as I was 
beginning to think I might make something of her. But the other 
found out she had come from the workhouse, and twitted her with 
it, and, before her month was up, Madge left, and took a place in a 
lodging-house, not of much account, 1 am afraid; but she said there 
w^as nobody there to look down on her— and she’s best by herself. 
But I’ll never try a workhouse girl again,’’ said Mrs. Williams, 
with a sigh at this failure of one of her many trials; “ you can’t get 
on with them.’’ 

“ Miss Pembury thinks of trying Madge at The Hall. I’ve writ- 
ten to Susan, to see if she can bring to her mother’s to-morrow,” 
said Polly. 

“ It’s no use; you’ll do nothing with her. Workhouse girls 
never do turn out well,” said Mrs. Williams, with that Christian air 
of resignation to the inevitable, which we are apt to show when 
other people are in question. 

Polly sewed on diligently for a time. Mrs. Williams looked at 
her admiringly. 

“ It is such a shame to sit you down to sew, but you always were 
so handy and so helpful. I was saying as much only the other day 
to — now, of all people, who do 3 " 0 u think, Polly?” 

“ Give it up without trying,” said Polly, holding up a natty little 
sleeve she had just concocted, admiringly. 

“It was Mr. Tomlyn,” said Mrs. Williams, almost solemnly. 
“ He comes here now and then; and oh, Polly I 1 do think that if 
you liked, you might have him yet.” 

“ But 1 don't want him,” said Polly. 

Mrs. Williams shook her hand. 

“It’s very easy to say that. It’s no use being too hard to please, 
Polly. You’ll only take the crooked stick, after all. You can’t 
expect to meet with just everything in your husband. It’s really 
nonsense to expect it. And while you’re waiting and waiting, and 
finding fault with this and expecting that, the time goes by, and 
you’re left in the lurch, after all. You know the sa 5 dng of bach- 
elor’s wdves, Polly. I expect it’s maids’ husbands with you. Now, 
don’t give up the chance of a good settlement in life — such a chance 
as may never happen again — because you expect a man to be the very 
pink of perfection. I know you may go on expecting to tie end of 
your days, if you do,” said Mrs. Williams, with a faint sigh. 

“ I’m sure of that,” said Polly; “ but I don’t like Mr. Tomlyn.” 

“ Well, lie’s a little odd, and a little brusque, and, I dare say, 
whoever marries him will find he wants a little management. But 
all men do; and where money matters are easy, one isn’t required 
to perform impossibilities. And he’s going to Hertfordshire. It 
seems he is acquainted with a Mr. Sam psou-^the very Mr. Sampson, 


SOME OF OUll GIELS. 147 

it seems to me, that took your poor little step-mamma to live with 
him. He is going there on a visit for the shooting. Now, Polly, 
that icill be a chance for you. I’m certain he hasn’t forgotten you. 
You might bring him back in no time. And 1 should be so glad— '• 
oh, ray dear, 1 should be so glad— to see 3^ou well married; and 
don’t be too nice or too particular. A ou can’t expect to have a hus- 
band made, as it were, in heaven, for you.” 

Polly laughed. 

” Well, I don’t expect it, and you’re very, very good, dear Mrs. 
Williams, to lake so much interest in me; but there’s one thing I’ve 
made up my mind to—” 

Mrs. Williams looked up with a little interest. 

” If I can’t get the right husband, 1 won’t take the wrong one. 

1 can walk alone, if it pleases God that I should so walk, to the end 
of my days, without even a stick to lean upon, but neither first nor 
last will a crooked stick ever content me. And I do think that to 
me Mr. Tonilyn, with all his money, would be a ver^^ crooked stick 
indeed.” 


. CHAPTER XXX. 

MADGE AT HER WORST. 

Baby had thriven wonderfully under Mrs. Smith’s fostering care„ 
and she took no little credit to herself for the improvement it had 
made. She was \ery sorry, and she said it with the tears in her 
eyes, to part with the little one; but her brother could not manage 
his business without some help, said Mrs. Smith, with a little pride 
at having a brother well enough off to require help in his business, 
and a housekeeper to look after his comforts. And it would be a 
good thing for Jane: she could make herself useful to her uncle, 
and he was well-to-do. Susan w" as going to be married in a few 
months. She was just staffing in this last place to get a few pounds 
for furniture, and Mrs. Smith was expecting her every minute, and 
Madge with hen 

And she had hardly said the words when the two came. 

Susan was finer than ever. It was clear that fashion descended 
even to the kitchens at the West, to judge by her appearance. Her 
costume was elaborate, and she had a mountain of horsehair, very 
sparely covered with her owm locks, bn her head. The heels of her 
boots were so high that she was almost afraid of walking in them; 
but she would have risked a dozen falls sooner than have been un- 
fashionably shod. Her fingers could not, by any amount of squeez- 
ing, be got into her gloves, so that the ends of these latter hung limp 
and flat, and were in her way even while she held her parasol; but 
they had three buttons, and Uie color was correct, though the qual- 
ity of the kid was wretched. But Susan was honestly overjoyed to 
see Miss Brooke, and looking so well, too; but wasn’t the country 
dreadful dull? and was Miss Pembury any better? and how did 
Miss Brooke think baby was doing? She had been every Sunday 
that she could get so far, to see her, since Miss Brooke went away, 
but Homerton was so out of the wa}^ of everything, and such a 
dreadful distance from Kensington; and here was Madge. Her 
* missis ’ had grumbled at letting her have half a day out, though 


148 


SOME OE OUK GIBLS. 


she’d never had a holiday since she’d been in the place. But Susaa 
had told her to stand out for it and not be put upon. “ Places was 
plenty enough, and Madge had got a four months’ character now, 
which was something to fall back upon.” 

And Madge sat silent all the while, staring at the baby, with a 
dull, half-stupid stare, which Polly did not understand. The girl 
was altered for the worse; her dress was dirty and untidy. ISusan 
had made a faint effort to ” smarten her up a bit,” by putting a 
Lowther Arcade brooch in the front of her shawl; but, as Madge 
and she lived at some distance from each other, and Madge’s mis- 
tress would not allow Susan to come inside the house when she called 
for her, she had not been able to do much more. Madge looked 
dirty, too— grimed in with dirt, as if. from one week’s end to an- 
other, she had no time to give herself a thorough washing. She had 
made an attempt to do so before starting, but the result had not been 
satisfactory; and her hair was rough, and twisted up in a shabby 
little knot behind. She looked worn, old, hopeless, nerveless, joy- 
less, soulless! — neither girl nor woman — a machine, with just animal 
functions enough to keep it going after a sort, so that it should per- 
form sordid tasks and coarse work in an imperfect fashion of its 
own. 

Mary looked at the baby, too, and chirped and smiled, and felt 
herself of some importance as its nurse, to be, for a little time. And 
besides, baby’s future mamma, Mrs. Henderson, was Mary’s own 
aunt, so that she was disposed to regard it as in some way a cousin. 
Mary was pretty, and rosy, and clean, and smart, in a new dress 
and bright ribbons. 8he was very little better than other village 
maidens— might have been just such another as poor Fanny Gill, 
who had been a great friend of her own, and for whose- fate she felt 
much sympathy and little condemnation, but for the fact of her hav- 
ing gone into service at The Hall almost as soon as she entered her 
teens. And she had grown into a girl of thirteen in such a home 
as Fanny had done — in such a home as Millicent Pemoury was 
doing her utmost that there should be no more of at Radley. Had 
she remained in that home till now, little chance of growing into a 
good woman would there have been for Mary. But, even then, she 
would not have been such another as the w'orkliouse girl — there 
would have been a chance of redemption — a possibility of good; she 
might yet have loved the husband who had condoned her fault — 
have been a tender, self denying mother to the children she had 
borne him; she would still have had instincts, affection, love, and 
hopes; and, take her at her lowest — say that she had sunk to the 
level of an animal, and could be looked upon as little more thau one, 
wh}^ even then she would have been a better, a higher, and a more 
hopeful creature than the things drilled, nursed, and schooled as if 
by machlaery, which our workhouses turn out by hundreds, and 
expect, by some miracle, to grow up into men and women. 

Polly went to Madge, and held out her hand; the other looked at 
her with vacant eyes, then placed her own limp fingers in it. There 
was no pressure on her part. Madge didn’t know how to shako 
hands, but Polly kept the dirty, coarse fingers, covered with an old 
cotton glove — a remnant of her days in Wurtemburg Street — in 
hers. 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


149 


“You never wrote to me, 1\ladge; and you told me you could 
write, you know. I quite expected to bear from you. l^ow, tell me 
how you are getting on, and how you like your place.” 

“1 don’t like it at ail,” said Madge. “But my likes doesn’t 
matter, that I see. And I didn’t write, because I didn’t think you’d 
want to be troubled with hearing of me. What was the good?” 

Every word uttered in the same limp, hopeless way that seemed 
to characterize the whole girl. It was as if she saw the good of 
nothing— hoped for nothing— expected nothing, and, God help us! 
believed in nothing! In God? No. Knowledge of him was part of 
one of the school lessons which she had learned by note, because 
compelled to do so, when a child, and was forgetting as fast as pos- 
sible. In love? She had known nothing, seen nothirrg of it in her 
childhood. Others believe in love, because they can never remem- 
ber the time when they did not feel something of its influence. But 
to this girl, who had been just let to live because the State did not 
choose to incur the guilt of infanticide; who had slowly struggled 
through a sunless, stinted childhood, love, unselfish kindliness, 
was as incomprehensible as sunshine would be to a plant — if plants 
bad consciousness— that had grown in a cellar to which not a ray of 
light could penetrate. 

“But I did want to hear from you, Madge. And you haven’t 
yet told me why you don’t like your place. Is the work too hard?” 
said Polly. 

“ I don’t mind work. One can but keep doing. Missis jaws, but 
1 don’t mind that. Only she’s very close with the food. I help, 
myself, of course, whenever 1 can,” said Madge, with a gleam of 
cunning in her eye. “ But then there isn’t much to take, an’ I 
don’t see that I ought to be cut short o’ my vittles.” 

Her voice was raised a little above its usual dead level when she 
spoke of this grievance, just as a machine might creak harshly if it 
were claiming the oil that was to keep it in working order. 

“ I could tell you of a better place, Madge, if you would promise 
me to do your best in it; and you can work, I know,” said Polly. 
“ Miss Pembury’s kitchen-maid is leaving her, to take a higher 
situation. The cook likes a strong, willing girl under her, that she 
can train and teach as she has done this one. Would you like to 
come?” 

“ I suppose it’s a great house, and lots of servants?” asked 
Madge 

“ Nine or ten in the house; and then there are the outdoor serv- 
ants,” said Polly, cheerfully. “Plenty of company for you, 
Madge.” 

“ A great deal more nor 1 should want,” said the girl, sullenly; 
a dull, red flush mounting to her forehead. “ I won’t go nowhere 
where they’ll twit me with being a workhus brat. I’ve had enough 
of that at Mrs. Williams’s.” 

“ But you wouldn’t have it at the Hall,” pleaded Polly; “ Miss 
Pembury would lake care that her servants should not be so cruel 
and unfeeling.” 

“ What ’ud she know of what goes on in the kitchen when she’s - 
tip in the parlor?” said Madge. “No, gals like me are best by 
theirselves. If my missis gives me more jaw than I like, 1 sarce 


150 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


her back, an’ she knows she won’t get one to do the work so well 
in a hurry, so she puts up with it. But 1 don’t want to have to do 
with other servants. If my ways ain’t just like their ways, they’re 
always ready with “ What can you expect from the workhus?” 
Now, my missis knows if she was to say that, 1 should put on my 
things and go, an’ she might go to the workhus or where she could 
for another; an’ when I leaves her — an’ 1 daresay I shall w^ant a 
change after a bit — 1 shall look out for a place of the same sort. 
I’m not afraid of work, but I don’t like line ways, an’ I won’t be 
looked down on by other gals.” 

” Will you write to me when you are out of place,” said Polly, 
and let me see if Miss Pembury can’t do something for you?” 

” Don’t want her to,” answered Madge; ‘‘ don’t want to be be- 
holden to no one. Haven’t got no need, neither. When I’m out 
of place, if I’ve got nowhere else to go to, the workhus is bound to 
take me back. I know my rights. X was born there, an’ they can’t 
shut me out. But 1 don’t want to go back to it yet. I don’t mind 
work, so long as I don’t get sarce; but before Ido go back,” she 
muttered, sullenly, — and this time something of an animal at its 
lowest, and worst, and vilest, came into her face, — no, it was not 
animalism, for there are infinitely lower depths in degraded human 
nature than that, it was liumanity that had never had a glimpse of 
God, a glimmering of goodness, and was alive only to its basest and 
coarsest instincts, — “ before 1 do go back, I’ll have my fling, like 
other gals, and see a little of the world first.” 

Polly was struck dumb for a moment by the utter hopelessness of 
the case. Was there nothing in this poor creature for her to appeal 
to? Womanhood w^as not dead within her— it had never existed. She 
had no hope of better things; she had never conceived their possi- 
bility as regarded herself. To end her days within the workhouse 
walls, as she had begun them, — to drag on year after year of the 
workhouse life, with food, raiment, labor, duly portioned out, and 
no care, no thought, no dread, no aspiration, — was all she looked 
forward to, after — and what horrible depths of sin and infamy did 
the girl mean in those few words — after she ” had had her fling.” 

Then presently Polly recovered breath, and made one last effort. 
“ 1 should have thought you would have liked to have been near 
baby, Madge, and I am going to take it back to Hadley. You could 
see it so often if you were at the Hall. ” 

Madge looked very earnestly at the baby for a moment. 

” I’m glad she’s goin’ with you. I’m glad you’ve saved her from 
the workhus; she’ll never grow up into such a gal as me. But it’s 
no good my bein’ near her. She wouldn’t care for me when she got 
bigger; nobody never does care for us workhus gals, somehow. We 
w^asn’t made to be liked,” said Madge, with a hard little laugh, that 
brought the tears in Polly’s eyes. 

Then she went up to the baby. Mary had made friends with it 
long since. The little creature cooed and laughed at her bright 
cheeks and ribbons. Mary had it on her lap. and was tickling and 
playing with its little limbs, and talking baby nonsense, while, at 
intervals, Mrs. Smith and Jane gave ^her due details of the means 
they had adopted to bring it into its"" present state of infantile per- 
fection; its daily airings, and the milk and the bread it required 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


151 


for its sustenance. Susan sat by, the while, now and then giving 
■^n encouraging nod to baby, who seemed to like her finery, or ut- 
tering a patronizing remark to Mary, upon w^hom she looked down 
with the calm sense of superiority a town-bred servant evinces for a 
xjountry one. Madge went up to the little autocrat who was 
the center of the group, and held out her arms to it, saying some 
uncouth words that she meant for endearing ones. She had 
never been dandled or petted as a child herself, and endearments 
^ud caresses sat aw'kwardly upon her. Baby cried, and turned to 
Mary, who was proud of her preference, and hugged it closer to 
her. Madge turned to Polly with a little sullen auger, — 

“ T told you so. The likes of us wasn’t made to be cared for. 
Well, I’m glad she isn’t going to the workhus, for all that.’" 

And nfter that Mrs. Tozer came in, and the other lodgers and 
their children. Baby had to be kissed and taken leave of. The 
little fatherless, motherless waif had become quite a presence in the 
house. Then Mary took her in triumph in her own especial charge, 
Susan and Madge, who were out for the afternoon, remaining be- 
hind to tea. 

Polly shook hands with Susan. “ You will let me know when 
you are married?” And then she held Madge’s hand again in hers, 
while she said, — ” You will write to me? you will let me know 
when you are leaving your place, or if you want a friend? You 
will let me hear from you; won’t you, Madge?”- 

” Maybe,” in her usual heavy, listless tones. ” But I don’t like 
writing; and what’s the good?” 

Whatever little influence Polly had once had over her seemed 
gone forever. It seemed impossible to make her feel that there 
was in this world any one who could care for her, or wish to raise 
her to better things. What little soul Polly and the baby between 
them had woke to life, was numbed and deadened now, by the 
drudgery of her daily life, her joyless, sunless existence, and, 
above all, by the pariah feeling — the ever-present consciousness 
that she was a thing beneath her fellow-creatures because of the 
workhouse brand. If she had chafed, resisted, struggled against 
this brand, — if she had even risen and cursed those who had set it 
on her, there would have been some hope; but there was none in 
tnis dull, sullen acquiescence in her fate, and in the cunning con- 
sciousness of the rights that that fate, outcast as it made her, gave. 
Bick at heart, Polly turned away; and letting Mrs. Smith tearfully 
give one last kiss to the little one, she and Mary left the house. 

Out in the autumn sun, which was shedding light and cheerful- 
ness on the humble, quiet street, it seemed like coming to fresher 
life, when away from that poor torpid thing, who scarcely seemed 
to have lived at all Polly’s heart had been very sore when she 
rose thsd morning. Her own grief had been put away for a little 
time, while there was the necessity for speech and action. Now.it 
came back, but not wholl}" as a grief. She felt thankful that she 
could love, even if weakly and foolishly; that the living human 
heart had not been killed within her; that she could feel, if it was 
only to suffer. Thinking of the clealh in life of the insensate, 
torpid tiling from whom she had just parted, she could hail 


152 


SOME OF OUE GIRLS. 


almost as a blessing the anguish that bul a little time back liad 
seemed so unendurable, and almost joy in what now seemed to 
be the privilege of pain! 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

ON THE BRIDGE. 

Mr, and Mrs. Horace Gordon had come back to England after a 
sojourn of some length on the Continent. They were located at a small 
farmhouse in one of the western countries. Mr. Baines, the landlord, 
was able to offer his tenants shooting over some hundred acres of 
moorland, and over the park of his landlord, who was a minor, and 
non-resident. Consequently, the two rooms Mrs. Baines had to 
spare were generally occupied in the autumn by gentlemen, who 
were sometimes, as in the present case, accompanied by their wives. 

Mrs. Baines did not like her lodgers. She was a bustling, active, 
good-tempered woman, with a keen eye to her own interests, and 
for many things besides, in which the interests of others might be 
involved. Her present lodgers paid well. They had agreed, with- 
out any demur, to her terms, which she had raised this season — 
Mr. Baines and she justly considering that, as everything else was 
going up in price, shooting privileges and furnished apartments 
ought to rise as well. And she might have charged them to any 
extent for her dairy and farm produce, and still they would have 
paid uncomplainingly. And yet Mrs. Baines did not “ fanSy them.’' 
The gentleman did not care a pin for his wife^ Mrs. Baines told her 
husband, and the lady seemed to think nothing in this world was 
worth her caring for. She was careless of her dress, and Mrs. 
Baines hated a sh)ven. She looked unhappy, and did not seem the 
pleasantest of tempers. If her husband did not care for her, she 
took little pains to make him, and, on the whole, Mrs. Baines came 
to the conclusion that, one wmy or another, there was something 
wrong about her lodgers. 

Wrong, indeed ! No one but w'ould have thought so to have 
seen them at breakfast one bright October morning, just a fort- 
night after Polly’s visit to town. They were late at the meal; they 
went to bed early and got up late, and yet the days were all too 
long. There were two or three letters on the breakfast-table, but 
they were all for Horace. His friends still wrote to him. He had 
“ made an awful mess of it, ’’ and perhaps some of them were good- 
natured enough to be better correspondents on that account. But 
it was very rarely that the post brought anything for Mrs. Hor- 
ace. Once in a way, her mother wrote— coldly, distantly as if there 
was a wall of ice between her and the child she had borne; but. 
she never heard from her sisters, never from her old schoolfellows, 
never from any of the hundred dear friends she had known in her 
early married days. 

She was looking sallow and haggard— sharp-featured, old, and 
worn. She had ceased to take any pains about her dress— there 
was nobody to see her, nobody but the man for whom she had 
risked and lost everything. She had brought no maid with her, 
and she had asked her husband to dispense with a man-servant. If 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


153 


they were going to a strange place, where nobody knew therii, why 
should they take servants, who could never be trusted to hold their 
tongues? And as the task of adornment depended thus entirely 
upon herself, she was apt to forget that, in her present circum- 
stances, it was one of the last duties it would have been wise to 
neglect. 

Horace Gordon turned his letters listlessly over; then he saw one 
with a familair post-mark, and opened it eagerly. “ He’s coming. 
Tynsdell’s coming, Adela! What a good fellow to waste a few 
days upon us here! Why, he’ll be here soon after his letter. He 
must have rested last night at Exeter; then he talks of taking an 
early train to Exton, and walking on over the moor with Ids knap- 
sack. Twelve miles. Well, he’s a good walker; and I may as well 
go and meet him as hang about in this hole.” 

He had been listless enough before he opened his letter, looking 
utterly bored and wearied of his life; but he brightened up now, 
finished his breakfast with a much better appetite than he had 
shown when he first sat down to it, and then prepared to start. 

Just as he was going, he said to Adela, — “lou’ll make it all 
right with JVlrs. Baines about the dinner; she told me she could 
give him a room before 1 wrote, and — and — 1 suppose if you do 
choose to do without a maid, you might make yourself look a little 
more like other people.” His face which in all its weary listless- 
ness had still preserved an expression of good temper, clouded over 
as he spoke. Mrs. Horace Gordon was certainly not a wife whom 
a husband’s eyes woij,ld delight to rest upon. 

“ Who is Mr. Tynsdell? A country doctor, I think. Originally 
at the East-End of London! I don’t suppose he knows much of 
ladies’ dresses; still if you wish it — ” and she gave an impatient 
shrug of her shoulders, and took up her book. 

Mr. Gordon turned angrily away. ” 1 can tell you, Adela,” he 
said, sharply, as he opened the door, “ Tynsdell knows a lady when 
he sees one, and, ’pon my soul, if it’s only for the sake of a change, 

I should like him to see you looking like one.” 

He went out, slamming the door. She shrusrged her shoulders 
again. It was a French habit, and she had taken it up with Fiench 
novels, and her French style of slovenly dressing when there was 
nobody by but the one who should have been everybody to her. 
Then she read her yellow-covered book, and, after a time, it seemed to 
occur to her that the breakfast things might as well be cleared away. 
She rang the bell, and Mrs. Baines herself answered it. The maid 
was scouring the dairy, and, besides, Mrs Baines though it high time 
that orders should be given about the dinner. 

Mrs. Horace Gordon half closed her book, keeping her finger 
within to mark the page. “ Mr. Gordon expects the friend to din- 
ner whom he asked you to accommodate with a bed, Mrs. Baines, 
and so, if you can get a little fish for dinner, it wmuld le as well.” 

” 1 don’t know that we could get fish without sending to Exton' 
on purpose for it,” said Mrs. Baines, ” which there’s hardly time to 
do now, ma’am. But we have some fine young fowls of our own, 
and there’s the partridges Mr. Gordon shot three days ago, if you 
thought them hung enough, and the butcher sent to let me know 
he’d killed a sheep last night.” 


154 


^OME OF OUR GIRLS. 


“ 1 dare say you will mana^e/^ said Mrs. Horace Gordon, and she 
opened her book again, as if the dinner was a matter not worth her 
consideration. Mrs. Baines was almost angry with her, and showed 
it sliglitly. 

“I ll do my best, ma’am; but with a fishmonger twelve miles 
off and a butcher two, and he only killing once or twice a week, 
one can’t be expected to send a dinner in just as if one had all tho 
shops in London to go to. And about the pastry, ma’am?*’ 

“ Oh, I’ll leave it to ^ou; you know what is best, Mrs, Baines.”* 
And again Mrs. Horace Gordon turned to her book. 

Mrs. Baines left the room rather disgusted. “ I never did see a 
woman like that,” she muttered. “ She’s a ruinin’ of that man as 
fast as she can. If he was ever so much in love, he’d be sickened 
by this sort of thing. There never was a man yet that ’ud get on 
with a wife that though it too much trouble to order a dinner/’ 

Mrs. Horace continued her reading for a time; then she rose, and 
walked slowly to the window. It looked out on a pretty, bright 
garden, full of old-fashioned flowers, gorgeous now with autumn 
coloring, and beyond the sweet West Country stretched out wide 
and fair. Mrs. Baines was very proud of the view from her win- 
dows, since she had heard an artist from London praivse it, and seen 
him spend hours in sketching some of its beauties; but it seemed 
wasted upon her lodger. She turned carelessly away. Once she 
had liked to sketch, herself; in a veiy imperfect fashion, certainly,, 
and her drawing and perspective had been about as correct as those 
of other young ladies; but had at least been an innccent amuse- 
ment, and a pleasant resource on rainy days. But sire never thought 
of sketching now. All pride in herself and her accomplishments 
was gone; they had only been acquirements for display, cultivated 
with a special purpose. Well, the purpose had been achieved, and 
then — why, then she found that all life w^as not over. She had 
gained her husband and lost him, and she had to go on living still; 
"but the little bit of drawing and the music seemed so flat and profit- 
less now that there was no one to slow the sketch to when finished,, 
or to praise the performance on the piano. She never opened the 
instrument, which Mrs. Baines so prided herself on possessing; she 
never took a needle in hand if she could help it. If it had not 
been for her reading, she would have led the life of a mere vege- 
table. The blight that had fallen on her seemed to be eating her 
very soul away. She was rusting to death, and rubbing is, after 
all, a pleasanter W’ay of dying. 

Meanwhile Horace Gordon was walking briskly on toward Exton. 
He was very glsd to meet bis half-brother, very glad to have a 
special object in view, if only as a change from the routine of his 
usually aimless days. For an hour and a half, with his dogs at his 
heels, he kept up his pace, and then he came in sight of a little 
stone bridge, three hundred years old at the least, that, about half 
way from Exton, spanned a little stream that flowed dowm from the 
hills around, and meandered on until it lost itself in the Dart. 
There was a little village just beyond the bridge, and once a mon- 
astery had nestled beneath the hills, for the stream abounded in 
fish, and the land had alwa3^s been fertile. The monks had the 
credit of building the bridge; may be, many a monk had sat on the 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 15o 

^one seat that was placed in the center, against one of the parapets, 
.«nd thought, as he looked over, of other things than fishes. 

There was a figure now upon the stone seat, leaning wearily 
over, and thinking to as much purpose as ever did monk in his 
day, of the vanity of all human things; of the folly of men, who 
were so easily beguiled to their undoing ; of the falseness of women, 
who seemed only to live to work such undoing. A knapsack was 
at his feet, and, as he turned his head„ Horace saw, as he had expect- 
ed, his half-brother. 

After the first hand-shake and words of greeting, he sat down 
on the old stone seat. There might ’ be many worse places for rest- 
ing than the old bench on Monk’s Bridge, this warm, soft autumn 
da}'. No one seemed to have any business, to brin^g him across, 
either t3 or from the little ^iliuge, and, with the hills around, bronzed 
and golden in the autumn beauty of the trees that covered them, 
and the clear stream rippling peacefully below, Gordon Tynsdell 
ought to have found the place conducive to soothing meditation. 

He did not appear to have done so, for his brother remarked, — 

‘‘You don’t look as if Hertfordshire suited you, old fellow. It 
was very good of you to come so far to see me, if there’s anything 
amiss, for we haven’t much to offer you here.” 

“ 1 wanted to see you, and I wanted to get away,” said the other, 
with a smile, which was rather a forced one. “ I was hipped, 
bored, dull— anything you like. I suppose a doctor wants a change, 
now and then as well as his patients; but I don’t want to talk"^of 
my own affairs; let us hear a little about yours.” 

He leaned back in an easier atttitude at one corner of the bench, 
and Horace, following his example, took out a cigar. 

“We may as well sit here, and talk over things, as anywhere 
else,” he said, “ though no talking in the world will mend them.” 
He took a puff at his cigar before he spoke and then went on moodi- 
ly, “ We’ve been knocking about half over the Continent since 1 
saw you, and then I got tired of it, and wanted to come home. She 
— Adela— didn’t care which way it was; in my opinion she cares 
for nothing now. and so I took some rooms* in a farmhouse near 
here. There’s good shooting to be had. 1 saw the thing advertised, 
and it does about as well as anything else.” He took another puff 
or two; then said abruptly, “How’s my mother?” 

“ Well— better than she has been.” 

“ And— and— you know.” He turned his face away as he spoke, 
and scattered the ashes from his cigar on to the water below. 

“ 1 think Miss Pembury is not likely to break her heart now on 
your account. You may set your mind at rest as far as she is con- 
cerned. There was some talk of her and a Mr. Tilburne of the 
Roydons, but she did not seem altogether disposed to throw herself 
away upon him. And now for yourself, Horace. Are you never 
coming to your own again?” 

“ What should I do if 1 did? People would look shyly on me, 
and they’d cut Adela dead. I don’t know that she’d mind much. 
As I said, 1 don’t know what’s come to her, but she seems to care 
for nothing now. She’s made an awful mess of it, it’s true, but I’ve 
stood by her, and done my best for her; and I think, when a worn- 


156 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


an has ruined a man’s 'Vvhole life for him, she might try and make 
things tolerably ple^isant.” 

“ At any rate, she has gone to her ruin with you. She hasn’t 
lured you on,— led you step by step to your destruction, and then 
left you there, herself serenely looking down from a purer atmos- 
phere. There are worse women than Adela Gordon in the world.’’ 

Horace looked sharply at him. 

“ There’s something wrong; I felt it the first moment 1 saw you. 
What is it, or, rather, who is she? Well, I should have thought you 
were safe, any way. Isn’t it enough for such a poor do-nothing as 
I am to be sent headlong to the dogs without having you to keep 
him company?’’ 

“ i don’t mean to go to the dog’s,’’ was the answer. “ I’ve been 
hit hard, and i suppose I show it. 1 was very glad to come to you 
and get out of the way — out of her way — for a time. By a lucky 
chance, a friend of mine, an army surgeon, was home on furlough, 
and he was very ready to take my place for a time, so I’ve handed 
patients and business over to him for a month; and if you’re tired 
of me before that time, I shall go somewhere else, and at the end of 
the month I hope I shafl be able to go back and look her in the face 
as if — as if x didn’t care a pin whether I ever saw it again or not.” 

“ Then she’s a Hertfordshire girl? Not Millicent Pembury?” 

“No; but you’re coming near. She is a little creature Miss 
Pembury has taken into the house as paid companion, and made a 
great friend of. But I saw her first, by an odd chance, in London; 
and the first time I did see her I felt that if I could only afford to 
marry, which just then was an utter impossibility, I’d have tracked 
that girl out, and moved heaven and earth to win her for my wife. 
I could have staked my life upon her, as true and honest, worth all 
a man had got to give; and — oh! don’t look like that— there’s no 
earthly reason Miss Brooke should resign her situation in Miss 
Pembury’s household. A girl who can measure, and calculate, and 
lead one man on while she is engaged to another is the last to go 
wrong in that way. But there are some saints worse than any sin- 
ners; and I think your thoroughbred coquette, who fences and 
plays with one fellow, while, at the same time, she is the promised 
wife of another, is a thousand times worse than the poor wretcii 
who can love well enough to rush headlong to her own undoing. 
There, now you know something of the story. Perhaps I may tell 
you fuller particulars some day. But we’ll let it rest at present, 
and find something pleasanter to talk about How’s the shooting 
here?” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

MR. TOMLYN AGAIN. 

It was quite true that Mr. Tomlyn was coming on a visit to 
Clayfield. Mrs. Williams, hoping for wliat she thought the 
best on Polly’s behalf, built great things thereon. She had ac- 
quainted Mr. Tomlyn with the fact of Polly’s residence in the im- 
mediate neighborhood, and he had tried to receive the intelligence 
with a certain grim composure, as if it did not in the least affect 
him. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


157 

** 1 don’t suppose 1 shall see much of her,” he said. “ What is 
she, companion or something of that sort? — has to fetch and carry, 
and do a lady’s-maid’s work without a lady’s-maid’s wages?” 

“You are quite mistaken,” said Mrs. Williams, with a little 
dignity, 'which she now and then assumed when she remembered,, 
and wished other people to remember, that she too had been a Miss 
Pembury in her time. “ Miss Brooke as she wished to impress 
Mr. Tonilyn, she would not call her Polly, so she said — “Miss 
Brooke— is treated as an equal and a friend by my cousin. Miss 
Pembury of the Hall. !She sees the best people in the county, and, 
if she only ciiose — only Polly is so odd,” she said, relapsing into 
confidence, “ would have every chance of settling advantaireously. 
It ia a situation any lady niiirht hold. 1 was something of the kind 
to Mrs. Danvers — my relation, and Miss Pembury ’s aunt and 
chaperon.” And again Mrs. Williams resumed her gentle air of 
meek arid faded dignity. 

“ if 1 thought that Miss Brooke would listen to reason, and — and 
— benave as a sensible girl might be expected to do, I’d see if I 
couldn’t find my way round to Pembury Hall,” said Mr. Tomlyu, 
upon whom the hint of Polly’s chances of matrimonial preferment 
had not been tlirown away; “or, 1 suppose she’ll be coming to see 
her step-mother, — that is, if they’re on good terms, whicli step- 
mothers and slep-daughters ain’t always, you know,” 

“ Polly never quarrels with anybody, and I don’t know how Mrs. 
Brooke would ever have got on without her. I always thought 
Polly quite the mainstay f the house in her poor father’s time. 
Mrs. Brooke married so young, and there were always children 
coming and going — poor little things! they took after their father, 
who was always delicate. It seemed hard at the time, but it really 
was a mercy they w^ere taken. And Polly had to see to the busi- 
ness in a way very few girls could have done; for Mr. Brooke, be- 
sides being ailing, was odd and peculiar — no, Mrs. Brooke would 
know better than not to be on good terms with Polly.” 

“ And it’s to be hoped she’d have sense enough to see what was 
the best thing to be done for Polly, eh, Mrs. Williams?” 

“ Well, Mrs. Brooke is not exactly a sensible woman,” said Mrs. 
WH'diams. “ But she married so young.” she added, apologetical- 
ly, wishing to say the best she could of Polly’s step-mamma. “ But 
I think— yes, 1 cZ(? think — that if you were to take her into your con 
fidcnce, Mr. Tomlyn — just give her a little hint — she might bring 
you together. I don’t think there could be any harm in that,” 

On the contrary, Mrs. Williams hoped there might be a certain 
amount of ffood. She did not quite like Amanda, of whom, how- 
ever, she had not seen ver*y much, and she had an instinctive feel- 
ing that, however comfortably Amanda might be located with her 
Uncle Sampson, she would like another husband, and a house of 
her own. But, she thought, if she knows that Mr. Tonilyn wants 
Polly, she will not be making up to him on her own account. She 
never could be so deceitful as that, after all Polly has done for her. 

“ Well, 1 shall see how things go,” said Mr. Tomlyn. “ when I’m 
down in Hertfordshire, and one has time for love-making down in 
the country.” 

Presently he took his leave, and departed to make suitable prepa- 


158 


SOME . OF OUK GIRLS. . ' ' 

rations for his visit to Clay field. He had bought a new gun, one 
of the best he could meet with — at least it was one of tbe most ex- 
pensive. He was not much of ii sportsman, but he considered, and 
with some reason, that in these days of battues, that was of very 
little importance. His shooting" costume was perfect, so was his 
new dress-coat; indeed, from his flask for sherry, with its silver 
mounts, to his new dressing-case, everything was as unexceptiona- 
ble about him as money could make it. 

But a visit to “ a man’s own place ” in the country was a differ- 
ent thing altogether to spending two nights, with a Sunday sand- 
wiched between them, at the villas of his friends at Clapham or 
Highgate. Mr, Sampson was a county magnate now, and it was 
something to be asked to go down to him for the shooting. A 
great many years ago when Mr. Sampson had not been very long in 
London, and was not by any means so rich a man as he was now, 
he Jiad stood as godfather to Mr. Tomlyn, then a red-faced baby of 
a month old. Mr. Tomlyn, senior, and Mr. Sampson had then 
both been young rising men. Since then the former had died, and 
his son had stepped into his place and continued to prosper. Mr. 
Sampson had always thought it right to show a certain amount of 
consideration to his godson. He had tipped him when he was a 
schoolboy, and given him his first watch — a silver one. He liad 
asked him to dinner occasionally, but of late he had not seen so 
much of him. Mr. Tomlyn had made acquaintances in fashionable 
circles. He visited in St. "John’s Wood, and had friends at Hotting 
Hill, and found that Hackney was very far east, and therefore it 
was that Amanda had not hitherto made his acquaintance. Mr. 
Sampson, indeed, had almost forgotten that he had a godson, till 
some small matter of business, in which they had a mutual interest, 
brought Frederick Tomlyn to his mind, and then, in writing to 
him upon that subject, he conveyed an invitation to him to come in 
the autumn for a fortnight’s shooting at Clayfield Hall. 

Mr. Tomlyn was very proud of the invitation. He could go east 
now when it was to his “ godfather’s estate” in the country; and 
as, while a bachelor, he could not repay Mr. Sampson’s invitation 
in kind, he took down a barrel of oysters with him, which, as they 
had fortunately risen so much in price, he considered a very fair 
equivalent for "his fortnight’s board, “ especially as I shall fee the 
servants all round when I go. It should be gold to the game- 
keeper — well, half-a-sovereign’s as good gold as a whole one.” 

Mr. Sampson was very g^ad to see him, and very glad to think 
that he had asked him. He liked to feel that he had fulfilled all 
the obligations of life in a thoroughly conscientious manner, that he 

owed no man anything,” and, perhaps lie would have added, owed 
God nothing either. He had been a pattern husband to a pattern 
wife. His servants were as well paid and fed, he sometimes said, 
as any nobleman’s in the kingdom. He considered hiniself a good 
uncle, his liberality to Amanda more than making up for his over- 
looking any claims his other nieces might have upon him. As a 
citizen, he paid his rates and taxes without a murmur, and as to 
spiritual matters, did he not go to church every Sunday, repeat all 
the responses, stand up during all the creeds, and drop a sovereign 
into the plate whenever there was a charity sermon? AYhat more 


SOME OF CUE GIRLS. 


159 


could be required of him? So now, in extending his hospitality to 
his godson, he considered he was only acting in accordance with the 
manner in which he had “ promised and vowed three things in his 
name/’ What those three things were, Mr. Sampson could not 
have told if his life had depended on it; but a godfather’s duty, he 
considered, was to behave handsomely to his god-children, and 
show them any little kindness lie could, as time and opportunity 
permitted. 

Is it poverty alone that creates heathens? Has not smooth, well- 
clad respectability, that pays its way, eats a good dinner every day, 
and an especially good one on Sundays and at Christmas, its own 
pagans, who have never found their souls, or have buried them be- 
neath the weight of good living, good clothes, good everything but 
just that goodness which counts all lost so long as Christ is found? 

L^ncle Sampson was very glad to have spme one coming to whom 
he could speak of City matters in general. He suffered a little, for 
want of some congenial soul, in Hertfordshire. He did his best to 
believe in himself as a country gentleman, and he was honestly proud 
of his forcing-houses and his pinery, which, as his gardeneV was 
allowed to spend a small fortune in fuel and have as many under- 
lings as he pleased, were really very creditable, his grapes and pine- 
apples not costing him more than about three times as much as he 
could have bought them for in Coveut Garden ; but the garden alone 
was n( t enough, and he had not much taste for any other country 
pursuit. He had not handled a gun since he was a boy, but meant 
to go out with his godson this autumn. He told the gamekeeper to 
look after the game; but when the gamekeeper caught a iDoacher, he 
shrank from .^u'osecuting him. 

“ It breeds ill blood, and very likely the poor wretch had got a 
wife to see to, ” he told Amanda. And after that, of course, his 
coverts were held in very slight respect; so that even if Mr. Samp- 
son had known how to do anything with a gun but paj^ for it, there 
would still have been very little for the gun to do. 

He liked strolling up and down the village street, feeling himself 
the magnet of admiring eyes — there is a pleasantness in being a 
Triton, if only amongst minnows. He had tried to establish an in- 
timacy with the Rector, but the latter had very little tune to spare . 
for social intercourse, having but a small income, which he supple- 
mented by taking pupils; and as to City matters, the rise and fall 
of shares, the rates of exchange, etc., the Rev. Thomas Glynne 
shrank from discussing them, as though such things were far worse 
than unprofitable, as, indeed, he had found them, having speculated, 
as is the wont of country clergy with small stipends and large hopes, 
in some promising company, which was to pay, at the least, twenty 
per cent., and which having, as a matter of course, proved a failure, 
had led him to look upon everything connected with the City as 
something so very much fddu to pitch, that it was impossible to 
touch it without being defiled. Of course, he was always on good 
terms with his squire; how else would the schools be supported? 
and not a squire in Hertfordshire gsve more liberally to every charity 
Iban did this one, who had coined his money in the City, where the 
Rector had lost liis. But it seemed evil money sometimes. Try his 
best to like Mr. Sampson, and Mr. Glynne— likea great many of his 


160 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


cloth, as illogical and unreasoning as a woman— felt as if money 
made in the City was made out of the spoil of himself and victims 
like him, and found it difficult to reeoncile Mr. {Sampson’s smooth, 
round, contented face, and unruffled placidity, with the dark and 
narrow ways in which he must have won his wealth. 

Mr. Sampson had told A^manda he had a City friend coming to 
stay for a fortnight, and had desired that there should be an 
especially good dinner to welcome him. 

Amanda smiled compliance. I wilt see to everything myself,” 
she said; and Mr. Sampson left her in the belief tliat half the morn- 
ing, at least, would be spent by her in the kitchen. That had been 
Mrs Sampson’s habit when any guests were coming whom her lord 
delighted to honor, and a very good habit Mr. Sampson esteemed it. 
But Amanda had no intention of spoiling her complexion by a 
kitchen fire; besides, she was ignorant of the very first principles 
of cookery, and had not the slightest desire to master tliem. She 
left the breakfast-room, however, and went into her own apartment, 
where siie spent an hour or tw’o very pleasantly, looking over her 
dresses and selecting one to wear that evening. She did not attach 
much importance to Mr. Tomlyn’s visit. Her uncle had spoken of 
him as a City friend, and the City friends with whom she had made 
acquaintance at bis house had been all middle-aged or elderly, all 
married, and generally with large families and good appetites. But 
even for these Amanda had always thought it worth her while to 
dress. She loved finery so very dearh% that she was glad of the 
slightest excuse for putting a little on. And when she had looked 
out her dresses, she thought she wmuld take a stroll in the garden, 
and there she met her uncle, w ho she thought had gone down the 
village. She had no intention that he should think she was neglect- 
ing lier domestic duties, but she smiled her sweetest, and said, “ Just 
ran out, uncle dear, to tell Thorpe to be sure and let us have some 
of his best grapes for dessert, and to pick some leaves to ornament 
it with m^'self.” 

And she tripped past him, looking her prettiest, with her hands 
in the pocket of a fanciful little apron just fit for a stage chamber- 
maid, and Uncle Sampson looked affectionately after her, thinking 
what a fortunate man he w^as to have secured in his old age the 
services of such a devoted little housewdfe as his pretty niece, Mrs. 
Amanda Brooke. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

MR. TOMLYN AT CLAYFIELD HALL. 

Mr. Sampson went to the Bridgewood Station, five miles distant, 
to meet his godson that afternoon. He had the carriage and pair 
out to do him honor. Indeed, since he had turned country gentle- 
man, he had quite discarded the phaeton and the steady old cob 
which had taken him to and from the City for years. He was not 
an ostentatious man, but he felt that he had now arrived at a point 
where a little occasional display was not only suitable but becoming 
and necessary, and he liked the signs and evidences of the money he 
had made about him, and he liued, too, to feel that for that money 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 161 

lie was having money’s worth. A thing, be it said, en passant , that 
those never 2 [et who have nothiog but money to buy it with. 

Mr. Tomlyn came out of the station, with a railway porter ol>- 
■sequiously bearing his higgaire. He feed the man, not largely, by 
any means, but still he feed him — ^^a thing he was not at all in tl; 
habit of doing; but now that he had come down to shoot over hi'i 
god-fgther’s preserves, he was prepared to travel seigneur, ani- 
pay accordingly. He was very full of grievance, which he vented 
as soon as he had shaken hands and taken his seat in the carriage. 
“ Pack of cads came in first class, because there wasn’t room in tli^ 
second— cattle-show, or something of the kind, at St. Bede’s, and 
they’i'e going to it. It’s not a kind of thing that ought to b;^ 
allowed — when one travels first-class, one ought to have first-clas:< 
<;ompany— .they should have been made to wait till more second-class 
carriages had been put on.” 

Mr. Tomiyr was a little mollified by his drive. The carriage wn^ 
a very handsome one the horses were good, the men— as Mr. Samp- 
son had come in state, of course he had two on the box- -looked 
thorough, well-paid servants. ” It must cost him a little to keep 
this sort of thing going,” Mr. Tomlyn thought; and when he caEn:- 
to the house, he began to appraise what that too would cost. H - 
bad DO idea how to test anything but by its money value. Cheap 
pleasures, luxuries that cost nothing, were incomprehensibk' to him . 
If violets had been a guinea a bunch, he would have made a poin: 
uf garnishing Lis button-hole with them occasionally, if only t.> 
-show that he could afford to do it. As it was, he contented himseli' 
with camclias, and contemned violets as much as he did primrose • 
and blue-bells and every other flower, whose sole attraction is that 

is sweet, lovely— and loW' priced, 

That was how it was with his matrimonial ideas. He did not 
want a cheap wife. On the contrary, he wanted one upon whom 
he could spend a great deal of money, and who would help him t • 
spend much more. But he wanted a wife to be worth her. money : 
lo do her duty as housekeeper, manager, and worshiper; to spen ' 
his money as he liked; to rule her house, and be guided by him ia 
all things, and to worship him as her lord and chief It was on]>- 
cn the last points that he had any doubts about Miss Brooke. Shi- 
would be a good housekeeper, clever, shrewd, and economical; an i 
she was pretty, and — with all her quickness of speech and odd way- 
of thinking — even he could see, a lady. If he won her, he shoul 1 
have something to show for his money. Wouldn’t she pay for th • 
dressing? But if she accepted him as her lord, would she honor 
and obey him as such? On that point Mr. Tomlyn felt very doubt- 
ful indeed. 

Amanda was sitting in the drawing-room ready to receive them. 
It was a very gorgeous room indeed, and furnished in the worst 
possible taste. Amanda had had her own way in it, however, and 
she was contented. Uiude Sampson thought it looked very fim^ 
indeed, and Mr. Tomlyn, as he glanced round, saw that it had cost 
a great deal of money. The room itself was, like the rest of the^ 
house, of the time of the First George. The narrow, small-paned"^ 
windows were smothered in gorgeous satin draperies, and further - 
darkened by gilded cornices. There was gilding everywhere, and 
6 


162 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 

buhl and showy china, which were all out of keeping with the 
carsred mantel-piece and door. Still, it looked very fine and pretty 
in Mr. Tonalyn’s eyes, and Amanda, as she rose to receive him, waV 
the finest and prettiest thing in it. Amanda, on her part, was 
rather taken by surprise. Mr. Tomlyn was certainly not elderly— in 
his way, he was good-looking, and lie had not the appearance of a. 
married man. Mr. Tomlyn was attentive — Amanda’s appearance 
pleased him, and he wished to make a favorable impression on Misa 
Brooke’s step-mamma. “ And a very good thing she has done for 
herself,” he thought, as he saw her at the head of the dinner-table. 

“ 1 dare say old Bampson will leave her half his money— perhaps the- 
whole of it. A very nice connection, indeed, for Miss Brooke, if 
only she had the sense to see the advantage of it.” 

To do Mr. Tomlyn justice, the idea of Amanda’^s being her 
uncle’s heiress did not influence him in the least in his admiration 
of her. He could afford to buy a wife, and he was quite willing to 
buy her, and, on the whole, he would rather have her without 
money than with it. “A woman with a fortune is often a dear 
bargain,” he said, ” and thinks she has a right to S[)end three times, 
as much money as she brings, besides giving herself no end of 
airs.” 

Then he did not like widows — he had always said he never would 
marry a widow. So that it did not occur to him that he might do 
well to marry Mrs. Brooke, though he thought her a very pretty 
and agreeable little woman ” and not too clever,” he said. “ That’s 
the worst of Miss Brooke. She’d be ten times a nicer girl if sho 
wasn’t so over- wise.” 

He could not help thinking a great deal of Miss Brooke, thougli 
she was so unfortunately clever. And he had thought a very great 
deal of her since she had left London. He could not forget her. It 
was not that she was so pretty. He had seen handsomer girls, and 
her cleverness was her one great fault in his eyes; but she had re* 
fused him. He had thought that he had only to ask and to have,, 
and here was a girl whom he had asked again and again, and who 
yet had said him no. He valued her the more, because she seemed 
to value herself so highly; and now that he was here, in Hertford* 
shire, he would not go back to London, if he could help it, unless, 
as an engaged man. ” She has seen a little more of the world since 
she left Wurtemberg Street, and there’s nothing like living with 
people who’ve plenty of money, to make any one wish to have 
plenty of tlieir own.” 

But he thought Mrs. Brooke very pretty when she came down to 
breakfast the next morning. He had only seen her, the day before,, 
in the twilight of an autumn afternoon, and then by candle-light. 
But her roses and lilies stood even the clear rays of the early morn- 
ing, and her smiles were as fresh and her eyes as bright as they had 
been the evening before. “ She can stand daylight, which is more 
than a great many good-looking woman can,” thought Mr. Tomlyn, 
” and she seems very good-tempered, and, without being so over- 
clever, to have a fair share of sense. I’ve a great mind to have a 
talk to her about Miss Brooke.” 

Amanda had a very charmingly deferential and winning way 
with her, which she showed to other peopb than her uncle— not 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


163 


often to women however — some instinct told her it did not answer 
so well with them. But with men it seldom failed, and each indi- 
vidual man thought, like Uncle Sampson and Mr. Tomlyn, that, 
without being impertinently clever, Mrs. Amanda Brooke had, at 
least, sense enough to disc^ern his own especial merits. 

But, after breakfast, Mr. Tomlyn found that there were other 
things for him to do than to talk over his love affairs with Mrs. 
Brooke. His host asked him if he would like to see the grounds 
and the houses, and Mr. Tomlyn went, as in duty bound. Amanda 
excused herself. Such lots of other things to see to,’’ she said, 
with her usual little laugh, and rattling a small bunch of keys in 
her little toy-basket. TJncle Sampson firmly believed that those 
especial keys belonged to the store-room and the linen-presses. His 
late wife would have thought the world was coming to an end if 
she had trusted either to her servants; but Amanda gave the former 
in charge to the cook, and the latter to the upper house-maid, and 
this bunch was only used to guard the treasures of her wardrobe 
and jewel box. “What were servants for, but to see to such 
things?” Amanda said to herself; but, at the same time, dear 
uncle’s fads had to be considered, and if it was his especial fad to 
think her the most notable and vigils nt of housewives, let him do 
so. It might be as well for him to think it, and, perhaps, for other 
people — Mr. Tomlyn, for instance, to think so too. 

So, leaving Amanda to her domestic duties, the two gentlemen 
went out— Mr. Sampson to do his duty as a host in showing all his 
new acquisitions, and Mr. Tomlyn his as a guest in seeing them, 
and evincing a certain amount of discriminating admiration. There 
was the vinery to be seen, and its grapes to be admired. Mr. Samp- 
son cared very little, indeed, for grapes, and for his own eating 
would have been satisfied with foreign ones bought at the grocer’s 
for eighteen -pence a pound. But it was the proper thing for a man 
to have a vinery when his thousands could be reckoned by tens, 
and, above all, if he had “ a place of his own in the country.” Mr. 
Tomlyn knew very little of grapes either, excepting that they 
looked well on a dinner-table, and were pleasant eating; but when 
he heard what the head-gardener’s wages were, and that he had a 
cottage and coals as well, he considered the vineries were excellently 
managed, and the show of grapes something wonderful. Then 
there were the hot-house, and green-house, and conservatory all to 
be gone through. Mr. Tomlyn knew very little about flowers— -less 
even than he did of grapes, as they could not be eaten. It being 
the fashion to wear fiowers in the button-hole, be wore them ac- 
cordingly; but if it hhd been correct, and sufficiently costly, to wear 
a turnip or a carrot, cut in the semblance of a camellia or a rose, 
as an ornament in his coat, he would have been quite content to 
wear one. Mr. Sampson rather liked flowers, and had a lurking 
tenderness for Aaron’s rod, Michaelmas daisy, sweet-williams, and 
«ome other old-fashioned flowers, which had grown in the borders 
of his mother’s kitchen-garden: but his gardener professed not to 
be aware of their existence; and, as Mr. Sampson was content to be 
guided by his gardener, the whole garden, which had been one of 
those delicious old-fashioned ones, where flowers whose names the 
poets have immortalized still lingered and were cherished, had been 


164 


SOME OF OXJR GIKLS, 


improved, and altered, and leveled, and cut out, till it was as taste- 
less, and as garish, and as red, and as blue, and as yellow, and as 
geometrical, and as vulgar, as any modern garden ruled over by 
ihat autocrat, a fashionable gardener, can be. Even now, in Oc- 
tober, it was still gaudy and showy, and as prim as sweeping and 
rolling could make it, and as bright as if the highest object of its 
ruling mind had been to make it rival a kaleidoscope, or the set 
patterns of a carpet warehouse. 

Mr. Torhiyn praised everything, for it was clear that everything 
cost a great deal of money; and he went into the fernery, which, as 
iie had on thick boots, and a morning walking-dress, was not so 
great a tax upon his politeness as such a visit proved to some peo- 
ple. The fernery was always very moist — something more, indeed; 
its flooring generally resembling a pavement after a very heavy 
shower. Ladies, especially if their skirts were long and -silken,, 
found visiting this fernery had its drawbacks. But Uncle Sampson 
showed it to everybody. His gardener took great pride in it, and 
so, of course, did he. There was an Australian monster, to su{)port 
whose existence an unlimited quantity of coke was required, and 
midnight visits from one of the subordinates. Mr. Tomlyn looked 
upon the Australian with profound respect; so he did upon the 
lesser beauties. Uncle Sampson would have told him their names^ 
if he could have remembered them; but not being able to do so, he 
?old him their cost instead, which was really more to the purpose. 
There was one lively adi — no! let us give the lovely thing the name 
that brings it bp-fore the eye with all its sweet and lender associa- 
tions, as if some lover, with a silken curl nestling close to his heart, 
and a vision of his lady's hair floating in the breeze before him, had 
named it — maiden-hair! 

It was not very large, but it was a perfect little beaut3% and Mr. 
Tomlyn recognized it. “ Hum, ha — shouldnh be here, should it? 
One of the common sort, isn’t it? I’ve seen one just like it in Cov- 
<*nt Garden for half a crown; and I’m sure, in some place in 
Devonshire, I’ve seen it growing wild in the hedges. I don’t take 
much notice of such things m3’^self, but this was pointed out to 
me.” 

Then, after the stables and the kitchen-garden had been visited, it 
was lunch time; and when thej^ entered the dining-room, Mr. Tom- 
iyn found that Mrs. Brooke had a visitor, and the visitor wms the 
lady of his affections. 

Polly had come to inquire after her little step-sister and brother. 
They had been ailing at the time of the/e^^, wdien their mamma ha(S 
, shown such solicitude on their behalf, and they had not yet recov- 
ered from the infantile disorder which had attacked them. But 
Amanda was delighted to say that they were better, only she hoped 
Polly would not say anjdhing about them. Polly was so incautious, 
and 80 odd, and — and she didn’t want always to be reminded of the 
dear lambs and her anxieties about them. 

“ What does Mr. Tynsdell say to the dear lambs?” asked Polly. 
“ Have you told him of their existence yet?” 

” I>on’t you know^ he’s away, Polly? Gone for change of air and 
rest. I am sure he must want it, with such a practice as his. All 


SOME OP OUR GIRLS. 165 

the leading people in the country are having him. Not that a man 
with his abilities ou 2 :ht to bury himself here all his life.” 

” Tes — he’s clever,” said Polly, languidly. Then she took off 
her hat. ’* 1 feel very tired, Amanda.” Of late Polly found that 
she got tired very easily. ” I think i’ll stay to luncheon, if you’ll 
ask me.” 

'‘Of course, Polly; I’m always deliglited to have you,” said 
Amanda. ^ . 

She would have greatly preferred, however, that Polly should 
have gone home. Mr. Tomlyn was staying in the house.' She was 
quite ignorant of his former acquaintance with Polly, and just at 
present Amanda would have liked a fair field. ” I believe, by his 
way of talking, that ho has ten times as much money as Mr. Tyns~ 
dell,” she thought; “and I don’t like his running away like this,, 
though I’m not going to say anything about that to Polly.” There- 
fore she was rather startled, and not altogether pleased, to see Mr. 
Tomlyn recognize Polly with unmistakable pleasure. “ Never heard 
her name him,” said Amanda. ” Now, what could she mean by 
keeping so quiet about him? Polly always was odd, but 1 begin ta 
think she’s downright deceitful.” 

Mr. Tomlyn thought Polly very much improved, though he would 
have found it difficult to say in wdiat the improvement consisted. 
For one thing, Polly had known a great trouble since tliey bad 
parted— the greatest, perhaps, that a good, honest girl, to whom 
love is a very real and very earnest thing, can know. Nay, she was 
passing through the furnace even now, and perhaps the flames had 
refined her somewhat, though there, never was much dross in Polly 
to be burnt awa}^ She was gentler, more subdued, than she had 
been, and her manner toward Mr. Tomlyn was different. It had 
never occurred to her to pity him before, but she felt something: 
like pity now. In his way, and ns much as he knew how, he had 
loved her, and had meant to make her, after his fashion, a fairly 
good husband. She felt that he deserved a little compassion for hia 
disappointment. He had offered her the best he had to give, and 
she had rejected it — perhaps not too civilly. There was no fear 
that Mr. Tomlyn would break his heart, but still her own was so 
very sore that she felt some pity when she thought of his hurt. 
And, this change in her feelings showing itself in her manner, Mr. 
Tomlyn thought that she had had time to think matters over, and 
to wish that she had not been in such a hurry to reject a good home- 
when it was offered her. 

Then there was no doubt that Polly’s manner, besides its soften- 
ing toward Mr. Tomlyn, was altered for the better. She had al- 
ways been one of Nature’ gentlewomen; but Nature is susceptible 
of improvement. Polly had not seen very much of society before 
she came to Pembury Hall, and perhaps her piquancy, though- 
very charming, had sometimes been a little too pronounced, and her 
energy and helpfulness might have manifested themselves, at times, 
too plainly. But she had had Millicent Pembury for her friend, and 
seen a great deal of Mrs. Gordon, and they both were gentlewomen 
by birth and training as w^ell as by nature. And Polly had won- 
derful quickness and aptitude, so that Mrs. Danvers was pleased. 


166 


SOME OF OUli GIIiLS. 


to remark that she had toned down very much since she came to 
the Hall, and was now perfectly presentable in any society. 

“ Not but that you are spoiling her, Millicent, by letting her mix 
as much as you do with ours,’' she w^ould always remark, in con- 
clusion. “ Kindness is all very well to one’s inferiors. I make a 
point of practicing it myself. Look at Rutt. 1 never give her a 
harsh word from one year’s end to another. Mr. Danvers used to 
say I spoiled my servants, but still 1 always kept them in their 
place. Now, you’re quite putting that little Miss Brooke out of 
hers. "VYhat will she be fit for when she leaves you?” 

“ We’ll see w^hen she does leave me,” Millicent would say, in an- 
swer. 

Polly w^as better dressed, too; Mr. Toml}^ saw that. He was a 
•fair judge af the value of a woman’s dress. “And the things fit 
somehow^ as I never saw a woman’s dress fit befoie; and there’s a 
style about her,” he thought, as he ate his cold fowl; “ and, alto- 
gether, she’d look well at the head of any man’s table.” 

Presently Amanda, who, like Mrs. Danvers, thought it was as 
well that "Polly should know her place, and, perhaps, that Mr. 
Tomlyn should know^ it too, said affectionately, “ I am so glad you 
can stay with us, Polly. 1 was just going to ask you, when you 
told me you could, dear, and then 1 thought that Miss Pembury 
might not like it.’* 

“ Oh, she’s not such a hard task-mistress as all that,” said Polly, 
with a smile, which lightened her whole face. 

“ She doesn’t let them put upon her,” thought Mr. Tomlyn, still 
watching her critically. ‘‘A girl’s none the worse for iiaving a 
little spirit of her own. How else W'ould she keep the servants in 
order? To say nothing of the children when they come.” 

“That’s right,” said Uncle Sampson, heartily. He always 
treated Polly kindly: a little patronizingly, perhaps, but she was 
too good-tempered to mind that. He looked upon her as a sensible 
young woman, wdio had set about earning her living in a very 
praiseworthy manner. “Pm glad Miss Pembury can spare you; 
but you’re not eating anything. Come. I don’t like to see young 
folks falling off in their appetites. You’ve been tiring yourself 
out, Miss Brooke. What with charity schools, and Sunday schools, 
anil mothers’ meetings, and working-men’s clubs, and building 
new cottages, and patching and mending old ones, 1 think you and 
Miss Pembury have more on your hands than you’re very well able 
to manage. Hov^^ever, I suppose it’s her fancy, and she can afford 
to have it; and you’re quite in the right to help her, — indeed, 1 
suppose that’s what you’re at the Hall for. Still, perhaps you’ve 
been •working a little too hard. So do you take half -holiday to day. 
Miss Brooke, as you say you can he spared, and Mandie here will 
lake you over the grounds and the houses. We’ve been seeing them 
all this morning, haven’t we, Tomlyn? And there are some ne’w^ 
ferns since you w^ere here. Did I tell you the figure they stood 
mein, Tomlyn? Just you take Miss Brooke lo the fernery, and 
show them to^-her, Mandie.” 

Polly had a horror of tiie fernery. To loop up her trim skirts, 
and go down in her neat little boots on its damp, sloppy floor, was 
more than the sight of any Australian monster would repay. “If 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


16 ? 


Amanda had a grain of taste, she would have a fernery in her own 
sitting room,” she thought; and, above all things she did not want 
to visit the fernery to-day, having a shrewd idea that, let her go 
where she would, Mr. Tomlyn would continue to accompany her. 
” I think I mist be going soon,” she said; “I’ve several things I 
should like to get done before dinner.” 

“ But you should see these new ferns, Polly,” said Amanda. She 
toDk care never to go down to the fernery herself. “ 1 do believe 
she knows all their names,” she added, turning with an air of infan- 
tile innocence to Mr. Tomlyn. “ Horrid long five-syllable w’ords, 
that 1 could not remember one of if it was ever so. But 1 do think 
that, of the twm, Latin is rather easier to Polly than English. ” 

“ Father was in the medical line, wasn’t he?” said Mr. Tomlyn. 
“That accounts for it, I daresay.” But even the Latin did not 
frighten him, as Amanda had expected it would do. “ She’ll for- 
get all that stuff when she’s married,” he thouglir, “ and has other 
things to think of. I daresay this Miss Pembury’s a bit of a blue, 
and, of course, she’s got to humor her. But 1 think I’ll give that 
little woman there a hint, as soon as I can, that I’ve got my eye 
on her step-daughter. She’s not at all amiss — for a widow, and I 
think old Sampson is in luck to have her to keep bis house in 
order for him. But it’s as well to prevent any chance of a mistakCj 
and I may as well let her know at once how the land lies.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“when all is lost.” 

Mr. Gordon Tynsdell might have gone to a livelier place than 
the Devonshire farm-house, to forget his love troubles. The shoot- 
ing was good, certainly, and Mrs. Baines exerted herself and gave 
them very good country fare. And he had the society of his half- 
brother, and the companionship, when within doors, of Mrs. 
Horace Gordon. But these distractions w^ere not powerful enough 
to drive Polly’s pretty, sparkling face from his mind. In fact, he 
thought of her more than ever; and the more he thought, the more 
difficult it seemed to believe that the girl could be such a one as 
Aminda’s story would have made her. 

He told the whole affair to Horace one day, when in a communi- 
cative humor, and the other had heard him with a considerable 
amount of sympathy. “ It’s a great pity you should have made a 
mess of it like that,” he said. “ 1 should have thought it was 
enough for one of us to have got thrown. And after all, there’s no 
great harm done, supposing the girl really likes you better than the 
cousin in India.” 

“She shouldn’t have carried on with both of us at the same 
time,” said Tynsdell. “There’s every harm done if a man finds 
the woman he has trusted has deceived him from the first.” 

“ I wouldn’t be quite sure that the deception lies with her. What 
sort is the little widow?” 

“A. pretty fool, but harmless, I believe,” said Tynsdell, who 


168 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


judged Amanda as correctly as most men do judge women with in- 
nocent pleading lips and eyes, ahd pink and white skins. 

She doesn’t want you for herself?” asked Horace. 

Tynsdell laughed. “ I can’t see why she should. Her uncle will 
provide amply for her, no doubt, and she is much better off with 
him than she would be as the wife of a country surgeon. Besides, 
she has every chance of marrying well. How, I should not have 
been a bad farti for Miss Brooke, while there is no knowing how 
long she might have to wait before the cousin in India asked her to 
go out to him. Pleasant to think one has been weighed in the bal- 
ance like that!” 

“Well, it doesn’t seem as if she’d found you wanting, at any 
rate. I’ve made such an awful mess of it myself,” said Horace, 
with his eyes bent on the ground, “ that it doesn’t seem as if 1 had 
any right to give you advice. But 1 wouldn’t put too much faith 
in that little widow, if I were you; and, at any rate, I think you 
ow6 it to Miss Brooke to hear what she has to say on the subject. 
You may right yourself yet, old fellow; but for he added, 
hopelessly, “ there seems no chance of things ever coming right at 
all. It’s a dreary lookout, to go on in a sort of hiding for the rest 
of one’s days; to feel, at seven-and-twenty, that one hasiust made a 
mull of one’s life, and yet that perhaps there are fifty years before 
me to be dragged out— -somehow.” 

“And I wouldn’t drag them!” said Tynsdell, energetically. 
“ One-way or another, I’d live them! You may say that I’ve set 
you a pretty example in running away from my patients, and com- 
ing here with my love story. But a fellow wants a little rest, a lit- 
tle breathing-time, after such a blow as I’ve had. I felt that I want- 
ed to see you, and I wanted to be away from that girl for a time. I 
felt as if I couldn’t think things oat when I was running against her 
every day. But 1 shall go back to my work, take up the thread of 
my life, and sec what 1 can make of it. I don’t suppose 1 shall 
ever marry; it will be years first, if j[ do; and I shall never see Ihe 
woman again that I shall care for as 1 did, as 1 do, for that one. 
But I’ve got to live my life, for nil that, and I’ve got to make the 
best 1 can of it, and that best sha’n’t be such a bad one. Can’t you 
make the best of yours? It’s up-hill work, I’ll admit; still, do 
something for yourself better than rusting away heic, or idling with 
the demireps of a foreign watering-place. And you ought to do it for 
the sake of that poor creature. Grod help her!” he said, his voice 
softening. 

“ Well, what can 1 do? Put it plainly.” 

“ I’d take up some interest in life. If you wonH go back to your 
own place, take another. You can afford to rent a small one some- 
where. Y'ou were fond of farming as an amateur, so go in for it 
.now, and see what you can do with the people who work for you. as 
well as with the land they till. Take an object, make an object for 
yourself, if it’s only to grow turnips larger than any one else has 
V over done; or sheep with a pound more wool on their backs than 
any other sheep have ever had. Anything practical, anything pur- 
pose-like, will be belter than this aimless, drifting life, that you’re 
leading now. It will only bring you to drink, and your wife — ” 
He Stopped suddenly. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 16^ 

- “My wife!” said the other, bitterly. “ Well, things can’t very 
well be worse with her than they are.” 

“ Yes, they can. A woman doesn’t always stop at the first down- 
ward step. They may be a long while taking that first, but they 
sometimes go at a headlong pace down the other ones. A woman 
without a home, in the true sense of the word; with a husband who- 
lets her see that his life is a burden to him, and that she has made it 
so; without occupation or society; why, what is there to prevent 
such a woman from falling into utter perdition when the first chance 
comes in her way, or killing herself, because she finds life too in- 
tolerable; for God’s sake! Horace, act like a man, live like a man, 
if only for the sake of this poor creature, who has nothing but you 
in all the world! Give her a home; speak frankly to her; ask her 
to help you make the best of things, to take some interest in vour 
pursuits. Remember that she is your wife, and more utterly^ de- 
pendent on you than any happy, sinless woman could be.” 

“ It’s hard lines on her, I know,” said Horace; “ but she might 
make things pleasanter than she does. As to me, 1 think 1 could 
pluck up resolution to follow your advice, or, at least to try to do so, 
if only — if only 1 were not at such odds with my mother. If 1 were 
once straight with her! if 1 could feel that she had, at least, for- 
given me, I think I might try and make a fresh start. As it is, 1 
feel out of heart, out of hope; fit for nothing but to stand with my 
hands in my pockets, and drift away to the devil.” 

“ Then go to your mother, and ask her to save you. I don’t say 
but what you may find her hard to deal with at first; still, there’s 
no knowing; you liaven’t seen her since this took place. Yes, just 
go to her, and tell her what you’ve told me.” 

“ I don’t believe she’ll ever see Adela.” 

“ Perhaps not; but she may as well see you.” 

The two young men had been sitting in the orchard of the farm- 
house while talking. It was a lovely October day; such of the 
apples as were not yet gathered showed ruddily through the leaves, 
that were thinning fast; and there was that soft, hazy, tender light 
over all things which sometimes gives Autumn a beauty and a 
tenderness which the Spring never knows. The old red farm-house 
at a little distance, looked well through the trees, and the porch at 
the back-door was overhung with fuchsias and myrtles, and out of 
this porch came Mrs. Horace Gordon as if tempted by the beauty of 
the afternoon to leave the house. When she saw the two young 
men, she came toward them. There were only two seats, — light 
cane chairs, whi.3h they had brought for themselves out of the 
house. Her husband kept his; but Gordon Tynsdell sprang to hi& 
feet, and, offering her his chair, flung himself on tlie grass. It was 
such a simple act of every-day courtesy, and a little while back she 
would hardly have observed it; but now she took the offered chair 
almost with a sense of gratitude. Tynsdell was always kind to hCr 
— gently, unobtrusively kind, and whatever faint shadow of self- 
respect still remained to Adela Gordon was fostered by that kind- 
ness. Her husband rose presently, as if impatient that she had 
come. Her presence seldom gave him pleasure, and he did not 
take much pains to hide the fact-. 

“ I shall go and finish the paper,” he said, turning to his brother. 


170 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


and strolled toward the house. 1711611 he was out of sight and out 
of hearing, his wife turned almost sharply to Tynsdell. 

“He went because 1 came. He is tired of me; and, oh! Mr. 
Tynsdell, if you did but know hoW tired I am of myself! Life does 
seem so utterly intolerable! No, don’t attempt to deny it. What- 
ever love Horace had for me is gone. He has paid too dearly for 
me, and he can’t forget the price. Oh! if I could only rid him of 
myself. Once it always seemed to me so impossible that any one, 
let them be driven ever so hard, could, if in their senses, find refuge 
in suicide. But now— oh! if it were not for what may come atto- 
ward, 1 think I should rid your brother of me.” 

Gordon Tynsdell believed her. There was such utter hopelessness 
in her look. And what had life to give her? He had spoken to his 
brother of some possible retrieval for himself, but for her, the 
partner of his life, what retrieval could be looked for? He could 
give no comfort, for none seemed possible. “ My life is a curse,” 
she went on to say, “ both to myself and to him;” and he felt that 
her words were the simple truth. 

She was not so negligent of her appearance as she had been on the 
df;y of his arrival. There had been always, in his manner, the same 
consideration and respect which he might have evinced if things 
had been wholly different. That had shamed her into a sense of 
propriety; and she felt grateful to him. Perhaps he was the first 
man who, knowing her sin, had borne himself as if that sin had 
never been. There was neither the austere reserve that straight- 
laced Pharisees, even of the sterner sex, sometimes thought it right 
to manifest, nor, what was worse, the freedom of tone, the name- 
less, indefinable familiarity, with which some had approached her. 

“ I wish you would tell me what to do,” she said. “ If I were 
to leave him, do you think things would be better? I’d go away 
and live my life alone, if I thought that would make things belter 
for him. 1 can but be an outcast, in any case. Why should he be 
an outcast, too? It would be awful — more dreadful than I can tell 
you-^to live alone; but still, I would do it, to make things easier 
for him, if possible.” ’ 

She looked so utterly miserable as if it mattered little, indeed, to 
her, how she spent the remainder of her days; not reckless and de- 
fiant, as, but a little time back, she had tried to be, but simply 
worn-out, crushed, and broken. Gordon Tynsdell’s heart was full 
of pity for her; but how could he give her anything 'but pity? He 
had spoken of hope, of some way out of the darkness, to his brother; 
but to this, his fellow-sinner, how was it possible to speak of hope? 
In that utter darkness into which she had plunged herself she must 
remain forever. 

“I would help him if I could,” she said. “ I would set him 
right with his mother and his friends if I only knew the way. I 
would do anything sooner than go on living as we are living now. 
As to myself,” she said, almost fiercely, “ 1 know there is no way 
out of this. I thought if I was once his wife, 1 might live it down. 
1 know better now. There is no living it down for me. His own 
mother would spurn me. I can’t go amongst his people, and he 
cannot go amongst them while I am living, or, at least, living with 
him. If you think it will be better for him that I should go aw’ay. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 171 

that there should even be a legal separation between us, 1 am will- 
ing to agree.” 

That would be, and Gordon Tynsdell knew it, the one chance for 
his brother. Be could not marry, but he could, at least, go back to 
his own home, and lake his own place again. After a time, even 
for his mother’s sake, he would be received and welcomed every- 
where, once he was free from the partner of his sin. But it would 
be a cruel thing for him to accept this sacrifice, and it would be 
base and unmanly — an impossibility, Tynsdell felt, but he was not 
so sure that Horace would look upon it as such. 

‘‘ 1 don’t think you should make such a sacrifice,” he said; “ I 
don’t think Horace ought to take it at your hands. Your love for 
him has cost you enough already, without its leading you to give 
yet more.” 

”Love! no, 1 don’t think it’s love now,'' she said, wearily; 
“even that seems dead. Only 1 am so wretched, so bioken, that 
a little misery more or less doesn’t much matter. 1 suppose 1 was 
fond of him, or I never could have acted so madly as I did; but 
that seems all like a dream now.” 

Y^es, it seemed all like a dream now. She had loved, sinned, 
suffered; and the love was over, the sin was sinned, but the suffer- 
ing would remain evermore. 

Out of the house came Horace with his paper. He looked at 
his wife as if he had thought that by this time she would have gone 
in-doors, and, seeing her still where he had left her, he strolled on 
through the orchard into the lane that ran at the end. bhe looked 
after him for a moment. 

“You see,” she said, turning to Tynsdell, “he would have 
stayed here if you had been alone; but, as it is, I am in the way. 
He doesn’t mean to show it, but I know there are times when he 
cannot bear my presence; and for me, what do 3 ^ou think it must 
be to see him keep aloof like that?” 

If there had been any comfort he could have given her — any word 
of hope he could have spoken? But she knew, and he knew that 
she knew, that hope for her was impossible. Her husband’s life 
would be a poor, imperfect thing, but still it would be a life, and he 
might make something of it yet. He could speak out to him as he 
had spoken, and tell him not to sink down utterly. But to her, 
poor sinner, on whom the heaviest punishment was to fall, what 
could he say? Something he tried to speak — conventionalities that 
one has recourse to when at an utter loss for something better, but 
she stopped him. 

“ You know as well as-T do how things are for women. If I 
forgot that, in my madness, or hoped that they might be otherwise 
for me, 1 know better now. I will do what I said. I will set him 
free as far as I can, if that will make him happier. You can tell 
him so, if you please, at once.” 

. And then she rose and went into the house, leaving Gordon 
Tynsdell to feel that the trouble he had brought with him was as 
nothing to that which he had come there to find. 


172 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS, 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

AMANDA ON THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES. 

Mr. Tomltn found life at Clayfield very pleasant indeed. Mr. 
Sampson was the most hospitable of hosts; and the goodness of his 
wine, and the excellence of his dinners, and the amount Mr. Tomlyn 
felt sure he must have spent on them, were such as to make his 
guest feel that his host was behaving with all due liberality. The 
country air, too, and the change from business were all conducive 
to a pleasant frame of mind; and altogether, Mr. Tomlyn, at the 
end of a fortnight, felt as if he had never spent fourteen days more 
happily in his life. 

It was not that he had made such progress in his wooing— indeed, 
he had made none at all; for Polly had not come again to Clayfield, 
and Amanda’s relations with the Hall were so extremly slight, that 
there had been no likelihood of her carrying him there in her train. 
And, somehow, he had shrunk from telling Mrs. Brooke what his 
views were as regarded her step-daughter. It was committing him- 
self again to do so, as he expressed it, and he shrank from such 
committing — and it might be as well to see how the land lay before 
he went too far. All of which meant that Mr. Tomlyn thought 
Mrs. Brooke a very pretty little woman, and was rather sorry that 
she was a widow. 

But at last he did tell his story. Amanda was looking her very 
sweetest one day, and it might be that be thought he would save 
himself from temptation, or it might be out of kindness to her, that 
she should not spread these little lures of hers in vain. 

“ A man ought always to b6 fair and aboveboard in such things,” 
Mr. Tomlyn said. 

She was reading a novel. Amanda had a taste for the very light- 
est of light literature, and her novels could not be cited as speci- 
mens of the best of their class. She laid her book down when he 
came in, with a smile. 

“ Just indulging a little, Mr. Tomlyn. I have been so busy all 
the morning, and I thought I had a right to a little indulgence now.” 

Amanda hnd the maid whom she had appropriated as her own 
had been having a grand survey of her wardrobe, with a view, on 
Amanda’s part, at least, to the further inthrallment of Mr. Tomlyn; 
but that gentleman pictured her a household fairy, flitting from 
store-room to dairy, from kitchen to larder, guiding and directing 
the whole of the domestic machinery, and letting every servant feel 
that the eye of the mistress was upon them. He believed in 
Amanda as an incarnation of all the womanly virtues; but the 
womanly virtues, according to Mr. Tomlyn, were not of a very ex- 
alted standard. As he looked at her, with that pretty, tired-out air, 
and the little feet that had been so busy bearing her from one scene 
of her labors to another, and the book which she had half apolo- 
gized for reading, thrown on one side as she turned to speak to, him, 
he said to himself, as he had said a great many times before, — 


SOME OE CUE GIRLS. 


173 


What a pity it is that she’s a widow! Such a sensible little soul, 
and yet not one of your confoundedly clever women, who are above 
being of the slightest use in the world.” 

He took up the book, and read the title. “ ‘ All for Love!’ ” he 
said, in a business-like tone, as if he were reading off the figures of 
an invoice. 

“ ‘ All for Love!’ ” said Amanda sweetly, and cast her eyes down 
very prettily. 

“ There’s a deal more nonsense talked about love than it’s worth,” 
said Mr. Tomlyn; “but we can’t get on without it altogether; 
can we, Mrs. Brooke? Now you wouldn’t think it; I daresay 
nobody would; but I’ve gone through the thing myself. 1 know 
more about it than you’d think for; and it’s had something to do 
with my coming down here.” 

Had he ever seen Amanda, before? Caught a glimpse of her 
when she was not aware, and come down in pursuit? Amanda 
thought that Mr. Tomlyn might be a better match than the young 
dDctor, clever as he was. There was no doubt but that he was rich 
— a man, according to her uncle, who would be sure to make his 
way, and was making it, very fast indeed. Her heart fluttered a 
little, but Mr. Tomlyn ’s next words went far to undeceive her. 

“ 1 saw your step-daughter. Miss Brooke, in town— saw a good 
deal of her, in fact, when she was staying at the Williamses, and — 
and I paid her a considerable amount of attention ;” Mr. Tomlyn 
did not exactly like to say that he had been refused, but still he 
wished to enlist Amanda’s sympathies on his behalf, “i don’t 
think she received it exactly as might have been expected, consider- 
ing her prospects, and — and — that there’s not much need that I 
should go begging for a wife. But 1 thought she was young and 
foblish, — girls don’t always know their own minds,— and that, if 1 
came here, she would have had a little time to think things over, 
and might be disposed to take a more rational view of matters.” 

Had Polly refused him, and never told her anything about it? 
This man, who, according to her uncle, was making his thousands 
faster and faster every year? What a little fool Polly was, to be. 
sure. And a deceitful fool, too. How could she have kept such a 
thing to herself? Amanda could have cried with vexation. To 
think of Polly having such a chance and then disdaining it! But 
she kept her outward composure as unruttied as usual, and only 
said, with her usual sweetness, — 

“ Polly is 80 odd, Mr. Tomlyn.” 

“ Yes, 1 think she odd,” said the gentleman, “ and clever —very 
clever; but, perhaps, a little too much so.” 

“ Yes — just a little,” said Amanda. “ Her poor papa encouraged 
her in it. He was, oh! one of the best of men,” and Amanda wiped 
her eyes— she could do no less when speaking of “ the best of men,” 
— “ but he was peculiar, and dear Polly takes after him. She used 
to read the paper to him by the hour together, and he had the same 
ideas that Polly has, and which Miss Pembury encourages her in — 
it is such a pity, in her position, too— about women’s rights, and 
suffrage, and all kinds of dreadful things. But poor Miss Pembury 
has had a disappointment, and perhaps that accounts for it. Only 
Polly will get more peculiar than ever with her.” 


174 


SOME OE OUK GIRLS. 


” It*s a great pity Miss Pembury lends herself to such nonsense,’^ 
said Mr. Tbmlyn, “ and Miss Brooke ought to have more sense than 
to encourage her in it."’ 

“ Oh, one’s as bad as the other; there’s not a pin to choose. 
Why, Polly would have turned doctor if she could. She has the 
nerve of a lion. I never saw such a girl. There was a boy brought 
into our place because he had. been run over, and they were afraid 
to take him to the hospital till his arm, or his leg, 1 forget which, 
was seen to; and his face was one mass of bruises. The way Polly, 
while we were waiting for other advice—for poor dear Mr. Brooke 
was unable to do anything just then — sponged his head, and held 
him in her arms, was something wonderful. 1 fainted at the sight. 
So would any woman with common feeling. But, Polly! Why, 
she held that boy in her arras while the doctor saw to him, and,"f 
believe, even set the bone, and he said he would never wish for a 
better assistant. And when her poor papa died, Polly was furious- 
that she couldn’t carry on the practice.” The “ shop” would have 
been the right expression, but Amanda would be genteel or noth- 
ing. And she did not choose Mr. Tomlyn to know that her late 
husband had been a chemist, in a very small way of business, in a 
very fourth -rate street. 

” She said if she had only been properly qualified, she was sure 
she could have done it,” Amanda continued; “ and she would have 
kept me and herself in comfort. As if I would have permitted her 
to support me by doing anything so unfeminine!” 

There was a little mixture of truth in this last speech. Polly did 
not often waste time or words in blaming the powers that be; but 
she had. said, when she found there was no prospect for Amanda 
but to live on her relations, and none for herself but a very spare 
subsistence as nursery-governess, — “ If only those who make the 
laws, Mandie, would remember that fathers and husbands sometimes 
die and leave very little behind them, it would be a very good 
thing for those women who have to make a fight of it for them- 
selves. If I could but be a properly qualified chemist, I’d have 
carried on this business, and kept you and the children in comfort. 
The business would just clear enough to do that, if we had only 
ourselves to keep out of it. But to pay sixty pounds a-year to 
some man, and find him in board and lodging, is more than we 
shall ever be able to go on doing. And all because I’m a girl in- 
stead of a boy! Oh, if ever the day comes when women have a 
little to say in such matters, perhaps we mayn’t be left to starve in 
the cold, as we are now!” 

Amanda had cried when she heard Polly speak like this; just as she 
had fainted when the boy that had been run over was brought in, 
bruised, broken, crushed. Amanda was always ready with tears, or 
fainting-fits, or anything else equally feminine, useless, and interest- 
ing. 

'' 1 do think women should be women,” said Amanda. “ I can’t 
see what they’re making all this stir about. What is the good of all 
this over-education? What do we want with science and politics, 
and so many other things that Polly talks about, and that I don’t 
even know the names of? I always did say to Polly, and so I did 
to her poor dear papa, when, sometimes, he would get so cross with 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


175 


me because 1 couldn’t understand his dreadful dry books as Polly 
did, that a woman’s place is HOME!” Virtuous Amanda uttered 
the word home xn. capital letters, as a great many women, with 
about as correct an idea of what makes a home, in the best sense of 
the word, as had she, are in the habit of doing. ” That was the 
only point of . difference between dear Mr. Brooke and me.” 
Amanda wiped her eyes again. ‘'Perhaps I was to blame,” she 
added, looking up with a pretty pathos at Mr. Tomlyn, ” but one 
can’t alter one’s nature, you know; and 1 did think, as 1 used to 
tell him, that so long as a woman attends to her home '' — this lime 
in the tenderest of italics, — ” looks after her children, if she has 
any,” — Heaven knows what would have become of Amanda if it 
had not been for Polly, — “keeps her servants in order, and has a 
clean hearth and a bright fire for her husband to come to when his 
day’s work is over,”— Mr. Brooke’s fire had gone out many a time 
because Amanda would not soil her pretty fingers by putting a few 
coals on it, — “ I do think,” Amanda went on, taking up her book 
again, “that when a woman has done all this, and seen to what- 
ever needlework there is to do— the buttons and the tapes that 
must be looked to, you know, Mr. Tomlyn, let these clever peo- 
ple say what they will ” — poor Mr. Brooke’s buttons! Polly had 
given up the charge of his wardrobe to the young wife when he 
brought her home, esteeming its care her rightful privilege; till 
Mr. Brooke, tired of unmended stockings and tattered shirts, had 
besought her to take it again into her care. “ Well, I do think,” 
continued Amanda, crossing her pretty little feet, and leaning back in 
her easy-chair, as if exhausted with the practice of al,l the domestic 
duties she had enumerated, “ that when a woman has done all this, 
there’s no harm in her reading a novel, a pretty, simple story, that 
takes her out of herself, and gives her something else to think of, 
tlian all the cares and worries she has had during the day. 1 don’t 
think there’s much harm in a novel now and then; do you, Mr. 
Tomlyn?” 

Mr." Tomlyn thought not, and he looked at Mrs. Brooke, as if he 
approved of her opinions in other matters than merely novels. 

“ It’s a pity you couldn’t have brought Miss Brooke over to your 
way of thinking,” he said. “ She’s a nice girl — an uncommonly 
nice girl — or, of course, I shouldn’t have paid her the attentions that 
1 did, and have come all the way down here to — to — look after 
her, in fact. At least, 1 don’t say it was exactly that— of course, 1 
was very pleased to come here, and pay a visit to Mr. Sampson, 
and yourself, Mrs. Brooke; still, when 1 heard she was in this 
neighborhood, I thought I should like to see a little more of her — ” 

“ Yes, yes; I quite understand,” said Amanda, in a sympathiz- 
ing and confiding lone; and then, after a little sigh, which Mr. 
Tomlyn was welcome to interpret in any manner that best pleased 
him, she said, — “ Now can I help you? You would like to see a 
little more of Polly? I’ll ask her to come here. But she isn’t so 
fond of coming as 1 could wdsh. You see we are not at all like- 
minded. She is so clever, and 1 am not clever in the least; and 
then, of course, she has to study Miss Pembury. Or — or — would 
you like me to speak to her on your account?” 

These last words were brought out with a little effort, as if it cost 


176 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


Amanda a great deal to make the offer. Mr.. Tornlyn felt sure that 
it did so, and he pitied her. “I haven’t spoken too soon,” lie 
thought, with a little self-complacency. “ Well, there’s nothing like 
being straight apd above board. She has nothing to blame me for 
now.” Then he said aloud, — 

Thank you. 1 should like to see a little more of Miss.Brooke„ 
if you can manage it; but 1 won’t trouble you to say anything on 
my account. 1 — I— should like to be sure how the land lies first. 
It is such a pity, you know, isn’t it?” he added, in a sudden burst,. 
“ that such a nice girl should be so confoundedly clever! It isn’t 
the cleverness I mind so much, you know; but it does make a wom- 
an so dreadfully stiff-necked.” 

Amanda shook her head. Yes; Polly always would have her 
own way; but we can’t help the way we’re made, can we, Mr. 
Tomlyn?” and then she gave another little sigh. 

” She’s a nice little creature, if she is a widow!” thought Mr. 
Tomlyn, looking admiringly down on her, “ with as good share of 
brains, too, as any woman need to have, and not enough, cither, 
to set herself up above any man she marries. And if a man didn’t 
mind a widow, and a great many men don’t, he couldn’t do much 
better than make up to Mrs. Brooke. And I won’t be in a hurry 
about Miss Polly. She’s a pretty girl, aud a nice one; but 1 expect 
she holds her head sliffer than ever, and, by all I’ve heard since I 
came down here, she and Miss Pembury are not doing each other 
much good. No, I’ll wait a bit, as I said. I’ll see bow the land lies^ 
in that quarter first. A man’s a fool to marry unless he’s sure of 
being master jn his own bouse. And women like Miss Brooke are 
apt sometimes to fancy they’ve brains enough for master and mis- 
tress too.” 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

HORACE AND HIS MOTHER. 

Amanda, who had a different opinion of her own abilities from 
that entertained by Mr. Tomlyn, was of opinion that, clever as she 
was, she had not been clever enough. If only Polly had been mar- 
ried, or even engaged, to Mr. Tynsdell, Mr. Tomlyn would not have- 
thought of her, and, being evidently anxious for a wife, would 
certainly have thought of somebody else, and why not Amanda? 
” He vrould have suited me very uicel}^’^ she said, pensively. “ He 
wants managing — all men do want managing— though, luckily, 
hardly any of them know it: but 1 could have done it — aud he’s got 
plenty of money — he’s very much richer than Mr. Tynsdell ever will 
be, and, by and by, he will have more. I do wish 1 had let Polly 
Ifave her own way about the doctor; however, I dare say I shall be 
able to secure Mr. Tomlyn, if 1 think it worth while.” 

But before Amanda had time to do anything more toward secur- 
ing Mr. Tomlyn, he was called away to London upon business of 
urgent importance. ” I can’t stay here,” he told Amanda, very 
jocosely, “ even for the sake of making love to Miss Brooke. Busi- 
ness be looked to, you know, Mrs. Brooke; but a man ms*}" 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 177 

get married any day of his life. And there is not much likelihood 
of anybody making up to Miss Brooke down here, is there?” 

Amanda had, at first, thought of giving Mr. Tomlyn a hint that 
he had a rival in the field in the shape of Mr. Tynsdell;’ but she 
judged, and rightly, that with such a man as Mr. Tomlyn competi- 
tion tor the frize would only make him more anxious to secure it. 
So she said, ■ — “ 1 don’t think you heed be afraid of any one run- 
ning away with Polly, Mr. Tomlyn. Her dependent situation alone 
is Very much against her.” 

” Of course it is — of course it is,” said Mr. Tomlyn. “It isn’t 
every man in my position who would overlook the fact of her being 
a mere paid companion— a genteel sort of servant, in fact — it pretty 
well comes to the same thing with governesses, and all that— poor 
creatures! No; I must go up to town at once. There are things at 
the counting-house that must be looked to, and there’s nobody but 
me to do it; and I can’t spare the time for another holiday till 
Christmas, when Mr. Sampson has been good enough to ask me for 
a fortnight. Then i’ll come and look after Miss Brooke again, and„ 
if Miss Pembury hasn’t quite spoi’ed her, see wdiat can be done.”' 

“ Perhaps it’s as well for me to wait too,” thought Amanda. “Uneie 
has promised me a month at Brighton, and tliere’s no knowing wdiat 
1 may do here. But Polly will never have Mr. Tomlyn — no, not if 
there was not another man in the world. Still, he may as well 
come down at Christmas, and try.” 

Atter that, Amanda did not trouble lierself very much about Mr. 
Tynsdell; her own health did not require his attendance, and 
nothing now ever appeared to ail the servants at the Hall. She had 
a month at Brighton in November, according to promise, and came 
back to Clayfield Hall wfitli a wardrobe replete with astounding^ 
novelties, which dazzled the eyes of the villagers, and interfered 
seriousl^^ with the devotions of every girl at church on Sunday 
mornings. But no suitor, either eligible or otherwise, had presented 
himself during the month, and Amanda was free todevom herself 
to the inthrallment of Mr. Tomlyn, when Christmas should bring 
him, w'ith its other good things, to the Hall. . 

And, meanwhile, Gordon Tynsdell had resumed bis work, feeling 
that he had no further lime to waste over his owm folly or Polly’s 
treachery. He must put her out of his life, out of his Iboughts: 
and go on as if she were not in the world. Sometimes he asked 
himself if he had been deceived; but he never credited Amanda 
with being anything worse than a vtry silly little woman; and wdiy 
should she have told him that long story about the cousin in India? 
and why should Polly take so much pleasure in corresponding wfith 
him, if he were no more tLan a cousin? No; be had been be- 
fooled and deceived, and must make the best of it; and the said 
best was not a very brilliant thing, after all. He did his work as 
^vell as ever; hut the zest and the pleasure had gone out of it. He 
studied hard, and he wrote for the Lancet ; he cured Squire Maule 
of the gout, which had been brought on by three courses a day and 
port wine, and Mary Smith of tlie low fever, which had come on 
through nursing her baby upon a diet of potatoes and porridge. 
And from Mary Smith to Squire Maule every bodj^ said that he was 
the cleverest doctor who had ever been in those parts, and only 


178 


SOME OF OUB GIRLS. 


hoped that he would not find Hertfordshire too obscure a sphere 
for his talents, and go back to London, where all provincial minds 
believe fame and fortune are to be had as easily as Dick Whitting- 
ton thought gold was to be. 

Of Polly he saw very little. Mrs. Danvers was well; nobody else 
at Pembury Hall had any occasion for his services; and Polly con- 
trived to keep out of his way. Just then her hands were very full, 
and before Christmas there were no social gatherings going on in the 
neighborhood; so that, except for a chance encounter by the road- 
side, when he went out riding or driving, and she walking, the two 
never met. When they did meet, these two clever jmung people, 
who were both as much in love with one another as any couple 
could very well be, would exchange very polite and even deferential 
greetings. They would not, for the world, have failed in an atom 
of courtesy to each other, lest it should be supposed that any rank- 
ling displeasure, any sense of injury, caused them to do so. The 
lady gave a pretty, conventional smile, and bent her head, crowned 
with its becoming hat and its beautiful hair, with the utmost 
grace, and the gentleman raised his hat, and lowered his head, as 
courteously as if he were saluting a duchess; and she went on, say- 
ing to herself, “ If he had ever loved me, could he pass me like that?” 
and went on, saying, “If that girl had as much heart as a 
chestnut, she could never look a fellow in the face again whom she 
has been fooling as she did me.” 

And all the time, Amanda, who was not clever at all, only so in- 
finitely -cunning, and bad moved these tvvo poor human puppets 
just as it pleased her, sat quietly at home, weaving her schemes by 
which Mr. Tomlyn, when he should come down from London in 
search of his queen, should find himself, perhaps checked, but cer- 
tainly mated. 

Horace Gordon, and that unhappy woman he had made his wife, 
were living at the farm-house in Devonshire simj)ly because they 
hardly knew where else to go to. But of late Adela had asked her 
husband to take her up to London. She was restless, w^retched, dis- 
satisfied, — longing to go anywhere that w^ould give her rest, and 
not knowing whither to flee. Rest and peace were, to her, to be 
impossible. 

Gordon Tynsdell was silting down after his day’s wmrk. as he had 
done once before w^hen his half-brother came to him. The work 
was heavier now. and better paid, but Gdrdon did not look much 
the happier man for having it to do. There was the hard, set look 
in his face, which comes to a man who lives for his w^ork, but finds 
he has little but his work to live for. It w\as more than a year since 
his brother had come to him and asked him how he could set the 
crooked lines of his life straight, and here he was again, with the 
hopeless look of a year ago on his face. 

“ We are going to London for a time,” he said, as he flung him- 
self in an arm-chair. “ We can’t get on at the farm; w^e’re tired 
of it — tired of everything, pretty w^ell. Adela and I don’t exactly 
liit it together, either. Sometimes she has asked me it it would be 
better for us to part. Poor thing! 1 don’t know’ how she could 
bear her life alone; and she is not w’ell, getting worse day after day, 
1 think, sometimes. When we are in London, I shall take her to 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


179 


Gull, and if he doesn’t do her any good, will you come and see 
her? She swears by you. 1 think, after all, you might do her 
more good than any of the great guns in whom it is the fashion to 
believe.’^ 

“ ril run up for a day, if you want me,” was the answer; and 
then Tynsdell thought how the death of this erring woman might 
set the tangled skein of his brother’s life right. Kothing else could 
do it for him. And for her — why, what had life to give that should 
make it worth her while to endure it longer? 

Some dim feeling of this, some consciousness that his wife’s death 
would be the best and happiest thing that could happen to him, 
was at work in Horace Gordon’s mind, and made him speak of her 
with a new tenderness. He was fearful lest he should fail in any 
duty that he owed her, because he knew that he had only duty to 
give. And if he did not love, at least he pitied her — this poor ruin, 
who had been such a bright, happy girl, and for him had made such 
an utter wreck of her life. ” I shall do what I can for her,” he 
said; “ she is all that I have left now, for, Gordon, 1 have seen my 
mother.” 

” Well?” the other looked up, eagerly. 

” I took her by surprise. 1 don’t know whether I did right or 
wrong, but 1 thought if I went to the house and let her know 1 was 
there, she would refuse to see me. 1 went across the fields, and 
into the garden the back way. I knew that was her usual time for 
being there, and old Scott, who let me in, told me where I should 
find her. And I didn’t think women could be so hard — mothers 
haven’t the credit of it, generally. She turned from me— she would 
neither look nor speak, but she walked from me quickly toward the 
house. That’s motherly love, isn’t it? 1 may as well stick to 
Addy, she’s the only thing in all the world that cares tor me. Poor 
wretch! She offered to set me. free, as she calls it. It was the only 
chance for me, she said; as if I could take her at her word! Poor 
Addyl Gordon, if my mother had ever cared for me, she could not 
have looked upon me as she did to-day.” 

” I believe if she had cared for you less, she would have forgiven 
you long ago,” said Tynsdell. “ Good Heavens! do you think that 
you can set one life wrong, and then another, and yet expect to have 
your offenses all condoned, as if you had been guilty of a mere 
schoolboy’s trick? You’ve played with fire, and it has burned, not 
only you, but a great many people besides; and the burned people 
don’t forget their hurts as soon as you would like them to do it. 
There, perhaps 1 ought not to speak so plainly, but I cannot hear a 
word against Mrs. Gordon.” 

” Thank you for it! Gordon, 1 believe my sin against her weighs 
more heavily on me than my sin even against Miliicent Pembury. I 
don’t say she deals out too harsh measure. Ko! she is right in all 
she does. She has had a hard life of it, and I have made it harder. 
And 1 think there are few fellows so fond of their mother as I was 
of mine; and what a pretty pass 1 have brought things to, with her I 
I may well stick to Addy, poor girl!” 

” Well, just tell me about Adela— what is amiss with her?” said 
Tynsdell, anxious to turn the conversation. “ 1 did not see any- 
thing wrong with her when I was with you.” 


180 


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“ She has a cough, and bad nights, and is feverish and weak, and 
the weakness increases. 1 don’t know whether it’s consumption or 
not; but 1 want to do my part by her now — perhapvS I haven’t been 
so good, all through, to her as 1 should have been.” 

Horace Gordon left within an hour of his first appearance at his 
brother’s house, and he hg d not been gone five minutes when there 
came a message from Mrs. Gordon, asking Tynsdell to go to her at 
once. He found her restlessly pacing the large drawing-room, in 
the twilight. If there had been sufficient light, he would have seen 
that her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes unusually bright. As it 
was, he felt that her hands were burning, as she drew him to her, 
and said, with a strenuous effort to appear calm, — 

“lam ashamed to trouble you after, perhaps, a hard day’s work; 
but I felt as if I must have some one to speak to — some one who 
could understand. Has Horace been with you? 1 have seen him. 
Oh, my son! my son! my son!” 

Then the pent-up passion found way, and the woman, who had 
seemed as marble to her son, was sobbing as wildly as any girl. 

“ I turned from him when he came—there was nothing else I 
could do; if I had not, I must have flung myself on his neck, and 
kissed him as I have not kissed him since he was a child. Gordon, 
I dared not stay! 1 should have given way at once — I should have 
taken him to my arms, in spite of the sin that has come — that must 
come forever, between us.” 

“ Is it not time for forgiveness?” 

“Well; after a sort, I do forgive him. There’s not a night or 
morning but 1 pray for him; there’s not an hour of the day 1 do not 
think of him. But how can I let him be as he was — how can I take 
him back to his home without taking his fellow-sinner too? And 1 
can't do it! I will be just outwardly — I will say that, as they have 
sinned together, they must suffer together; but in my heart, while 1 
am full of love and pity for him, 1 loathe the woman who has 
brought him to this. Perhaps it is because I feel that he might 
make me overlook even her offense — even her sin, that I shrink 
from him as 1 do. Oh! that woman has wronged me a thousand 
times worse than he ever wronged Millicent Pembury. A girl may 
have another lover, but how shall I ever have another son?” she 
said, as once before she had said to Millicent herself. 

Gordon Tynsdell waited till the storm had subsided. Only once 
before had he seen Mrs. Gordon moved like this. Outwardl3^ she 
lived as if her son had passed out of her existence. The daily 
routine of her life, so full of duties and cares, seemed to suffice for 
her peace, if not for her happiness. And there was all this passion- 
ate, tumultuous love raging like a troubled sea beneath the calm 
surface of her daily life — passion, and anger, and remorseful ten- 
derness, beneath the calm, good sense with which her neighbors 
credited her as her primary qualification. Perhaps Gordon Tyns- 
dell did not believe her to be quite so sensible as did they, but he 
loved her all the better for not being so absolutely perfect. She was a 
woman to resent and to suffer, and love weakly, instead of the un- 
moved perfection all the country round credited her with being. 

“ 1 suppose he has gone back,” she said, presently, “ back to his 
wife?” 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


181 


Gordon Tynsdell wondered whether it would have been of any 
avail in bringing those two nearer if Horace had remained in the 
village. No, his mother would never have recalled him. Once out 
of her sight, she was safe. 

“He wanted to get away,” he said. “He came here partly to 
see you, and partly to talk to me about her. She is ill — he means 
to take her to London for the sake of advice.” 

“ What is the matter?” asked Mrs. Gordon, as carelessly as if the 
answer were hardly worth her hearing. 

“ Something, I fancy, that it will take a cleverer doctor than 1 to 
cure. I believe she is dying of a broken heart.” 

“ Why could she not die first? It is too late now.” Mrs. Gor- 
don spoke out plainly the thought that had occurred to both Horace 
and his brother. “ Her death would make all the difference. That 
would set him free. Yes, he would be free,” she added, after a 
pause; “ but he could never be to me what he was. 1 had great 
hopes for my boy, and some pride in him. Now, if he were free, 
and Millicent Pembury were to think of being his wife, 1 should 
tell her, as •she hoped for happiness, never to become my daughter. 
God forbid that her married life should be such a one as mine has 
been! And it would be — it would be. 1 should not dare to hope 
for anything better, ^nd yet— and yet —if that woman were to die,” 
she added, in a musing tone, “ it would make life a very different 
thing to Horace.” 

“ She has suffered enough,” said Gordon, with a pity in his voice 
that sounded like a reproach to his hearer, “ to make life little worth 
the having.” 

“ I don’t attempt to wear a mask with you,” said Mrs Gordon 
sharply. “ It costs me enough to wear it with the little world 
arbund. It’s hard enough to look and speak as 1 do, instead of 
lettingtcvery one see that I am crushed and shamed — that all the joy 
and pleasure has gone out of my life. I must be frank when 1 am 
with you. If this woman were to die, though my son could never 
be again what he was to me, though I should never dare hope to see 
Millicent Pembury my daughter, still he might live his life to some 
purpose — he might come back to me, and begin again. His ruin is 
not irretrievable — hers is; and we cannot alter the world— we can- 
not make it deal equal justice to sinners. God forgive me!” she 
cried, with another burst of tears, “ if I am wrong, if 1 anv sinful, 
if I am cruel; but if this woman were to die, 1 might have my sou 
again! Now, between him and me there seems a greater gulf than 
death could ever be.” 

Mrs. Gordon had found, as so many of us do find, and say over 
and over again, that life separates far more than death, and that 
those eyes are happy which never shed bitterer tears than those they 
give to the dead ; and, it may be that, when she thought of Adela’s 
eiu, and all that it had brought, it did seem as if she was hardly 
worthy to live; but she might yet be called upon to learn that as life 
can cause a greater gulf than death, so it may purify more surely 
nnd expiate more awfully. 


182 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


CHAPTER XXXYII. 

MISS pembury's proceedings. 

Mr. Tomlyn came down to Clayfield for bis Christmas, accord- 
ing to promise; and he came down fully resolved to go on with his 
wooing in earnest. “ It’s no use waiting any longer,” he said to 
himself; ” time is going, and 1 am not getting any younger. Be- 
sides, 1 have always said, that wlien a man can afford to keep a 
wife, he ought to have one; and as to Miss Brooke, I should think 
that, by this time, she must be pretty well tired of getting her liv- 
ing in other people’s houses, and be glad of one of her own.” 

Mr. Sampson had made great preparations for Christmas. He 
was kindly and hospitable enough, and, as far as beef and other 
benefactions went, he was ready to fill his part of country gentleman 
to perfection. The Rector had never had a more liberal parishioner, 
but even while he took his money, he thought uneasily how it must 
have been acquired. Wealth made in the counting-houses of that 
mysterious City could never be made righteously, according to (he 
Rector. But, perhaps, his views might have been modified if hi& 
own small venture there had turned out otherwise than a loss. 

Amanda was prepared to be very civil to Mi. Tomlyn when he 
came. Nothing having come of the month’s sojourn at Brighton, 
she was not disposed to let Polly carry him away frorp her. And 
as to Gordon Tynsdell, she wondered now that she had ever thought 
of him. “As if I hadn’t had enough to do with gallipots in my 
time,” she said, her mind reverting to Mr. Brooke and the chemist’s- 
shop; “ Polly is welcome to him, I’m sure.” 

But she had sad tidings for Mr. Tomlyn, when he came, of the 
manner in which Polly and Miss Pembury had comported them- 
selves. 

“They are the talk of the whole country,” she said. “Polly 
always was so odd, but Miss Pembury has made her ten times 
worse. They are going in for everything that’s dreadful, and un- 
feminine, and unlady-like. 1 can’t tell you half that’s said about 
them. And as to remonstrating with Polly, where’s the use? 
She never would be guided by me. Ah! Mr. Tomlyn,” and 
Amanda again wiped her eyes, which somehow no amount of 
weeping ever dulled or disfigured, “ a step-mother hasn’t an easy 
life of "it, especially when her husband has a daughter almost 
as old as herself, and as self-willed as Polly. I never cou Id- 
gain any influence over that girl. But how was it to be expected, 
when 1 was no more than a child myself when Mr. Brooke first 
brought me home?” 

“And what have Miss Pembury and Miss Brooke been doing, 
now?” asked Mr. Tomlyn. 

“ Don’t ask me,” cried Amanda, with a little gesture of horror. 
“ It’s too dreadful to be talked about. But I suppose you ought to 
know, toe,” she added; “ and perhaps, if you hear of it from other 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 183 

quarters, tilings may be made out worse than they are. And there’s 
no need for that, is there?” 

But “ things ” could hardly have been made very much worse 
than Amanda made them, for she informed Mr. Tomlyn that Miss 
Pembury was strongly advocating the Women’s Eights question in 
all its bearings; that she had been seen on the platform when a lady 
had delivered a lecture on the subject; and that it was believed she 
had some intention of putting up for the representation of the county 
at the next vacancy. She had also set up a penitentiary or reform- 
atory in the village, for shocking, dreadful creatures—” oh! I am 
ashamed to speak of them, Mr. Tomlyn,” said Amanda, with averted 
face; and Polly, of course, had aided and abetted Miss Pembury in 
all these unfeminine proceedings. ” Indeed, Polly is the worst of 
the two,” said Amanda, her righteous indignation rising; “fori 
believe Miss Pembury could be made to do just whatever she 
pleases; but' as to Polly, she always had a will and a way of her 
own, and she took good care to make her own will and way do for 
other people, tdo.” 

The real truth of all Miss Pembury’s proceedings was this. She 
had gone to hear a lecture in St. Bede’s b}^ a lady lecturer on the 
subject ill question. She was accompanied by Polly, and, being 
chaperoned by Mrs. Gordon, even Mrs. Danvers had nothing to say 
against her going. ” I can’t imagine that you’ll derive any amuse- 
ment from it,” she said, ” beyond the oddity of the thing. Still, a 
great many people are going; and, of course, if Mrs. Gordon is with 
you, nobody can see anything to object to.” 

Polly was wild to go; but then Polly was a thorough little revo- 
lutionist. Mrs. Gordon had said ” it might be as well for Millicent 
to hear what was to be said on the women’s side of the question. 
Down in Hertfordshire we hear plenty of what is to be said on the 
other.” And Mrs. Gordon had gone and chaperoned the two girls, 
feeling glad that she had something to do that would take her out 
of herself for a time. She could not, she would not, give herself up 
to that gregt grief of hers. It shadowed her home, it. was with her 
at her up-rising and her dow'n-lying, in her walks and by her hearth, 
but it should not conquer her. She had lived other sorrows down. 
She might never hope to do so with this— she could never hope that 
its anguish and its smart would be forgotten; but if it w^as to be her 
companion for life, it should not be her master. She would go out 
of her own life to live in that of others; she would interest herself 
in all the movements, struggles, and interests of the busy life around 
her, and it would be w’dl for Millicent to do so likewise. 

The lecturer of that evening had been graceful, elegant, and well- 
dressed, and she had made a great many converts, especiall}" amongst 
the gentlemen wdio heard her, and, being the daughter of an old 
acquaintance of Mrs. Gordon’s, that lady had gone on to the plat- 
form when the lecture was over, and introduced Miss Pembury and 
Polly to her. There had been a few words interchanged, and the 
little incident was duly noted in the country papers, and excited 
some gossip in the county circles. Mrs. Gordon could do no wrong 
— her reputation for good sense was too well established; but Miss 
Pembury was too young, as yet, to have acquired so enviable a 
character; besides, she had been crossed in love, and it was only 


184 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


natural that she should be so odd and peculiar in consequence. Ar 
to the Reformatory, that resolved itself into a home for poor, desti- 
tute children — “the shameless, dreadful creatures” of whom 
Amanda had spoken with such horror being all girls under thirteen. 
Millicent had become acquainted at Mrs. Gordon’s house, last sum- 
mer, with one of those women who are as the very salt of the earth 
to our great cities— a woman still in the early prime of her life, 
gently born, well connected, and with a face fair enough to have 
made the light of a fireside. And this woman, a lady in the best 
sense of the word, had been fighting the Jjord’s battle in the narrow 
lanes and crowded alleys of our great Babel. In slums and courts, 
where many a man would hesitate to go, she was waging warfare 
with sin, and evil, and disease. Now, stricken down and tired, she 
had come for a little rest and breathing-time to Mrs. Gordon, who 
had known her mother when they were girls, and herself for years 
as a correspondent; and to Millicent, waking up to some conscious- 
ness of w^hat a woman might make of her life, even if its first great 
venture had failed. Miss Bligh seemed the incarnation of all saintly 
goodness, and self-sacrifice; while Polly, wdio was a natural hero- 
worshiper, could have fallen at her feet in reverence. 

“ I shall be spoiled bet^veen you all,” said Miss Bligh, laughing. 
** You will make me think that the little 1 do, and oh! it does seem 
so little, when one sees all that there is to be done, is so very much. 
Just as if you had no work dowm here in the country, and were not 
doing it to good purpose, too!” 

“ Yes, Miss Pembury has found a few giants to kill,” said Pollyg' 
who, of late, had taken to w^orshiping her friend; “ and she is con- 
quering them fast.” 

“My giants!” said Millicent. “The giants would Ihe long 
enough if the slaying them rested with me. Polly, you would do 
ten times the woik that I shall ever do if you were in mj^ place. 
When I see what Miss Bligh has done, and what you might do, 1 
feel a very useless creature indeed.” 

g “ We wouldn’t have jmu otherwise,” cried Polly. “ We want 
lilies and roses in this world as well as sturdy briers like me — not 
even sweet briers, I’m afraid,” she added, with a comic ruefulness. 
“We want some like you, Millicent, to show how a wmman can be 
sweet and graceful, and a lady all through, and yet spend herself 
for others without losing one whit of her sweetness and refinement.” 

“ I would give some of my so-called refinement and sweetness to 
be as useful and as helpful as you are, Polly; and as to Miss Bligh, 
when I look at my own daily life, with its surroundings of ease and 
plenty, and compare it to hers, spent in those dreadful London 
streets, 1 feel as if my busiest days, my most disagreeable duties,, 
were only hours of idleness and tasks of pleasure.” 

“ Aou are doing your work in your own appointed place— doing it 
where God has set you,” said Miss Bligh, gravely. “ For me, my 
life has been cast in London, and so my work has come to me nat- 
urally.” 

“ Ah, but if I could only help you!” said Millicent. “It is so 
little I seem able to do, and 1 have so much given me.” 

“ Help! oh, never fear but that 1 should be glad of your help!’'^ 
cried Miss Bligh. “ What you could do for me, living down here 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


185 


'in the country, in the midst of this sweet, pure air, which only to 
breathe is like inhaling another life, is more than I can tell. Only 
you may find, if I take you at your word, that 1 shall be taxing you 
overmuch."" 

“ No, 1 am not afraid of that,” said Millicent, gravely. “God 
has done so much for me, let me try and do a little for Him.” 

It seemed as.if it could not be the same Millicent who had been 
ready to lie down and die because her lover had played her false, 
who spoke thus. And yet the love had been the one great fact of 
her life. The lime would never come when she would be able to 
look upon Horace Gordon with indifference; and whatever new 
powers or feelings the years might bring, they would never bring 
her the power of loving any one as she had loved him. So that her 
life had had this great and irremediable loss, that its first and best 
love had been thrown away. But she had learned better than to 
think that a loveless and conventional marriage could atone for the 
want of a full and perfect one. 

Miss Bligh went back to London, to do her work harder than 
•ever. She had not been long away, when she wrote to Millicent, 
.asking her if indeed she was still willing to help, and telling her in 
what way she could aid. There were three girls — fatherless, mother- 
less— outcasts from their birth, living, who shall say how? — chil- 
dren, y^rZ'Children of the gutter. One knows of the London 
saucy, precocious, old in iniquity before bis time; but for him, the 
boy, there is always, at any stage of his career, the chance, the 
possibility of ultimate redemption. Even tlie thief, so long as he 
stops short of murder, may yet win his way to better things, and, 
given a helping hand, end his days an honest man. But the girl 
-gamin , — the motherless, fatherless female child, to whom purity and 
modesty have been things unknown almost from her very birth, who 
would rather live on the offal of the streets and the refuse of the 
markets than be caged in a workhouse — who shall dare picture what 
her life must be? — who may speak of it, how shall one dare to tell 
the true condition of those outcast children? 

Miss Bligh had come across three such, of those whose past lives, 
.short as they were, one may not dare to speak. First one and then 
another of these wild, savage, hopeless creatures had come in her 
way. A woman less pure would have shrunk from their impurity 
— a woman less good, from the sin in which they seemed so steeped; 
but she— ah! there are some women before whom we weaker ones 
could bow down as reverently as we do to Christ! — she was fearless 
in her own goodness, and she gave those wretched ones a temporary 
refuge, and looked round her for some other place for them. 

Anywhere away from Loudon, where their old companions could 
not find them. They were not fit, these creatures, to whom no 
*chance of good had been possible, to mix with ordinary children, 
and the rules of a Reformatory would have chafed them, even if 
■they could have teen sent to one. Could Millicent help her? 
Could some home be found for these girls, where Pauline Brooke 
and she might exercise some supervision over them? 

And now and then, at the right time, the right person comes in 
the way. It happened so in this case. An ofd servant, who had 
been years in employ at the Hall, came back to ask for work and 


186 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


help. Her husband had died abroad, and left her with very slender 
means. She had been laundress in tin? house formerly, in the time 
of Millicent’s mother, and for some years after her death. The pres- 
ent laundry-maid was goinoj to be married, she heard; would Miss 
Pembury take her back in her place, or, what she would like better, 
allow her to rent a little cottage, and give her the work out? 

This seemed the very chance tliat was wanted. Ann Clare had 
always been considered a religious woman, but of an austere, grave, 
character; kindly withal, but more respected than liked by her 
fellow- servants. Time and trouble seemed to have softened her a 
little, but Ann had always been ready to do a kind turn by any one 
she could. Would she take the laundry, with these girls for help- 
ers? The whole thing was laid before her, and Ann said she would. 
Miss Bligh’s young outcasts came down, and a little while after an- 
other, a younger one, was added to the number, and Polly was con- 
stant in her visits to the cottage where they lived. Just now, in the 
fever of her heart, the more work she had to do the better. She 
could not sit still and pine to death, as Millicent had so nearly done. A 
perfect frenzy of work seemed at times to seize her: and then, again, 
there was an angry shame, like that which had possessed her v^hen 
looking on Madge’s stolid hopelessness, that she, with all this sea of 
misery raging round her, should think of such a little thing as her 
own solitary grief. 

So Ann Clare’s cottage, with its four rescued children, was the 
Reformatory of which Amanda had spoken to Mr. Tomlyn; but 
even that did not altogether daunt him. 

“It’s a pity,” he said, “she should mix herself up with such 
things. They're much better left to the clergy. It’s a part of their 
work, and they’re paid for doing it. Ladies had much better let 
these things alone. It’s the same with the other thing. Women 
will keep meddling with things that they know nothing at all about* 
Politics, indeed! Oh! if women only knew when they were well 
off, they’d be glad enough to let them alone. Still, you know, i 
don’t altogether blame Miss Brooke. She’s not her own mistress, 
you must remember that. Miss Pembury ought to know better. 
But, there! when she gets married she will have something else to 
think of than all this nonsense, and so will Miss Brooke. Take my 
word for it, Mrs. Brooke, by the time the first baby comes, neither 
of them will care a pin if the whole House of Parliament could be 
composed of ladies.” 

Then, seeing Mr. Sampson in the garden, looking as if in want 
of some one to talk to, Mr. Tomlyn went out to him ; and Amanda 
cried (in earnest, this time), and said, “I do believe he means to 
have Polly, after all; and I shouldn’t wonder but that, just out of 
spite that she can’t get the doctor, she’ll have him.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. ^ 

AMAI^DA IS VICTOmoaS. 

Me. Tomlyn having resolved to proceed with his wooing, deter- 
mined to set about it in earnest. He was not a whit disheartened 
even by Amanda’s account of Polly’s eccentricities. “ She’ll get 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


187 


out of that sort of tiling,” he said again, to himself, “ once she’s 
married; and I’m not sure but that that little woman wants me for 
lierself, so, of course, she’d make the worst of things.” 

Mr. Tomlyn did not dislike Amanda for wanting him for her- 
self. On the contrary, he was rather flattered; but still he piqued 
himself on his own discernment, in seeing that she did so. Then he 
began to think how he had best proceed with regard to Polly. 

” It’s no use asking Mrs. Brooko to get her up to the Hall. She 
won’t do it. I can see that. And it is hard upon her, poor, poor 
thing!” he added, with a touch of compassion for Amanda. ‘ And 1 
don’t like writing, for many reasons. No; I think the best and 
most straightforward thing, as I really am in earnest, and want this 
matter settled as soon as may be, will be to go up to Pembury Hall 
and see Miss Brooke herself. Then I shall have an answer one 
way or another.” 

So, on the last day of the old year, Mr. Tomlyn went. He had 
made a very elaborate morning toilet., and really looked a well-to- 
do, good-tempered, presentable man. He was satisfied with his own 
appearance, and, with the memory of Amanda’s prepossession in 
his favor, felt that he ought not to despair of winning his suit. 
‘‘ Mrs. Brooke is much prettier than her step daughter, and not very 
much older, and there’s no doubt but Sampson will take good care 
of her, but I could have her for the asking; so I should think that 
by this time, if Miss Brooke has a grain of sense, she is hardly likely 
to say me no.” 

Miss Brooke was at home, he found, when he came to Pembury 
Hall, and he was shown across the great hall, with its faded old 
portraits and its suits of armor, into the drawing-room, white the 
footman went to apprise Miss Brooke of his visit. He looked 
around him. Everything was old and faded. There had not been 
a dozen articles of furniture added to the Hall within the present 
century. But the room was bright with flowers, and there was an 
abundance of old Indian china about, and that old Towestoft, of 
which they think so much in Eastshire. Mr. Tomlyn didn’t care 
for old china. He liked everything bright, and gay, and new, and 
carrying its cost unmistakably on its face. 

” The whole place wants doing up,” he said, looking round him. 
” Everything is a hundred years old, at the least. "What a difference 
it would make in the place to turn all these dingy old things out, 
and do it up as Mrs. Brooke has furbished the drawing-room at 
Clayfield? Pictures, too — every one of them wants varnishing, and 
there isn’t a decent frame in the whole lot. That’s the worst of 
these old families; they stop too long in a place, and let it go to 
rack and ruin.” 

Polly came in now, looking very pretty, and wondering a little 
at Mr. Tomlyn ’s visit. He had been very polite and attentive when 
he had been at Clayfield in the autumn, but that was three months 
ago, and, as he had gone away without renewing his suit, she had 
no fear of his doing so now. Indeed, if ever she thought of Mr. 
Tomlyn’s possible matrimonial intentions, it was that they must be 
in favor of Amanda. “ He would -just suit her,” she thought, and, 
with a sharp pang at her heart, ” I do believe she has thrown Mr. 
Tynsdell over, after all.” 


188 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


But Mr. Tomlyn did not leave her long in doubt as to the object 
of his visit. He shook hands with her very cordially, and he held; 
her hand an unnecessary time; then he said, — 

“ Can you guess what I’ve come about, Miss Brooke V” 

“ A message from Amanda, 1 suppose,” said Polly. “ Perhaps- 
to scold me for not having been to see her, but 1 have been so busy 
this Christmas.” 

Yes, yes, of course, and your time is not your own. She knows 
that, and so do 1,” said Mr. Tomlyn, encouragingly. “ Sbe would 
have been very glad to see you, I am sure, but she can make allow- 
ances. No, Miss Brooke, I have not come with any message from 
your step- mamma, but I have come to speak on a subject which 1 
opened to you more than a year ago. You did not receive it then 
as 1 could have wished, but you are more than a year older than 
you were then, and you seem altered, and disposed to look at things 
in a more serious light. My feelings have undergone no change. 
The only change has been in my position, and that has improved. 
I am a richer man by a good many thousands that 1 was this time 
last year; and I can give you a home of your own, and I should 
think that by this time you must be tired of living in other people’s. 
And, though 1 say it, you will not easily find a better husband than 
I shall make. Well, Miss Brooke, which is it to be — yes, or no?” 

If the man had only loved her, if there had been something of 
passion or affection in bis tone, even if it had been as foolish as a 
boy’s, Polly might have felt some compunction for him, As it v as, 
although disposed to treat him more seriously than she had done 
when he first spoke to her, for Polly was much more than a year 
older since then, she had no pity for the wound she was about to 
inflict. 

“ No, Mr. Tomlyn — no — once and for all,” she said, looking him 
in the face unflinchingly. 

“You don’t mean it. Miss Brooke! You can’t mean it. You> 
have had a year to think things over, and I should do my best to 
make you happy, and I am sure you would do your part by me. 
There may be little differences of opinion between us, but I am not 
afraid but that we should get on well together. From the first time 
I saw you, I felt that you would suit me for a wife.” 

“And I can’t say thst I thought you would not suit me as a hus- 
band the first time 1 saw you, for I never thought of you in that 
light aj all till you offered 3 ^ourself lo me, Mr. Tomlyn, but I feel it 
now as I felt it then. I’m convinced that if I were to marry you,, 
it would be a bad thing for your happiness.” 

“I’ll take my chance of that,” interrupted Mr. Tomlyn, with 
impetuous gallantry. 

“ But I’m not disposed to take the chance myself. I’ve my own 
happiness to think of,” said Polly. 

“ I’m sure you might trust it with me. There’s not a thing (in 
reason) that a woman could wish for that I shouldn’t be ready to 
give. As I tell you, I’m a richer man than when I offered myself 
to you before, and I was not doing so badly then. You shall have 
a carriage to start with, and fix your own allowance for dress. I’ll 
study your wishes as far as possible,” he said, eagerly. 

“ You want to buy me, Mr. Tomlym, and I won’t be bought. If 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


189 


I cared for you, do you think I shouldn’t be able to fno on foot, and 
dress on nothing a-year? And 1 don’l care for you; and if you 
could ffive me millions, it would make no difference.” 

Mr. Tomlyn was discomfited. He had made sure of victory. Polly 
had been very gracious to him in the autumn, just because she 
thought that he would never dream of making love to her again, 
and he had presumed upon her graciousness, it seemed — misunder- 
stood her altogether. 

“ 1 am sorry I’ve troubled you, Miss Brooke,” he said, stiffly. 

Polly bent her bead in acknowledgment. 

“ I thought that by this time you might have taken a different 
view of matters, and have begun to feel that it would be* pleasant, 
at last, to have a house of your own.” 

Polly said nothing — the less she argued with him the better — and 
he sat for a little while nervously twisting his hat between his 
hands. He was crestfallen and ashamed. He had made so sure 
of victory. To those to whom much wealth is the end and aim of 
cM ambition, it seems as if it must buy everything^ and yet it could 
2 iOt buy this poor, penniless girl to come and share of his abun- 
dance. He went out of Pembury Hall feeling a much smaller man 
than when he entered it. 

Amanda saw him coming back to Clayfield. He had gone to 
Pembury on foot, for the day was bright and clear, and he had 
started directly after lunch, saying that he intended to take a walk, 
as the day was so fine. Something in his manner, something in his 
dress, made Amanda suspect the true state of things, and she had 
gone into her own room and cried with disappointment and vexa- 
tion. Then she had consoled herself by looking over her dresses; 
and she had not finished this interesting emplo 3 ^ment when she saw 
Mr. Tomlyn returning to the house, walking on the wide carriage 
sweep that skirted the oval lawn in front, with a very different step 
to that with which be had gone out. 

” She’s refused him I” cried Amanda, and felt as if she could 
have kissed Polly. ‘‘ Serves him right, for making so sure of her.”' 

But if Mr Tomljm deserved to be punished for overdue conceit, 
it was not for A-manda to reprove him, seeing she had done her best 
to foster the feeling; and even now the course she had adopted w^as 
calculated more than anything else she could do to reinstate him in 
his own good graces. She looked at the glass, gave one or two 
touches to her dress and her hair, and then went into the drawing- 
room, where Mr. Tomlyn found her in her favorite attitude— that 
one of which 1 have spoken before as admirably calculated to dis- 
play her pretty little feet to the best advantage when they were 
crossed on the footstool, and the firelight fell most becomingly on 
her fair hair as it rested on the black satin of the easy chair she oc- 
cupied. She had a book in her hand — one taken up at a venture. 
Mr. Tomlyn vras no reader, and he was not likely to ask her any- 
thing about its contents, and it did as well as anything else for her 
to hold. 

She turned to him, as he came into the room, with a pretty little 
gesture of w^elcome. Somehow it made him feel as if he w^as at 
home, as if there was balm here even for such a hurt as his, and he 
did feel very sore. ” Back again,” she said; ” come and sit down 


190 


SOME OF OUIl GIRLS. 


and rest, if you’re tired; and if you’re very tired, don’t even dress 
for dinner. We shall be quite alone, and what’s the use of so much 
ceremony between friends?” 

Some instinct — and iestinct sometimes comes to cunning women 
more surely than to those who are really clever — told her that he 
wanted soothing and petting; and he did feel very grateful for boih. 
He sat down in a chair opposite to her, and looked moodily at the 
lire. Amanda turned over the leaves of her book, but it Was get- 
ting too dark to read; still it was as well to have something to hold 
in her hand. She w’atched him furtively, and did not epeak too 
soon. But presently she said, — “ I’m afraid you’re tired,” and 
then, with the fretliest sympathy, — ” something has vexed you.” 

Mr. Tomlyn made no answer. He only looked at the fire more 
moodily than ever. 

“ I wish he’d answer,” thought Amanda. Then she ventured on 
a little sigh. “Something has vexed you much, ” she said, 
softly. 

“ Yes, it has,” was the answ^er at last, “ and 1 don’t think that it 
ought to, either.” 

“ May I guess?” asked Amanda, scarcely above her breath. “ Is 
it about— Polly?” 

“ It’s about Miss Brooke,” said Mr. Tomlyn, presently. “1—1 
—suppose 1 may as well tell you the truth, Mrs. Brooke,” he added, 
with a forced laugh; “ for if 1 don’t, she will. 1 suppose every girl 
looks upon each oiler she gets as another feather in her cap, whether 
she chooses to wear it or not.” 

“ She— she hasn’t refused you, Mr. Tomlyn?” cried Amanda; “ it 
isn’t possible?” 

“ Miss Brooke know^s her own affairs best, or else I should have 
thought that an offer like mine was not to be said no to,” said. Mr. 
Tomlyn. “ Perhaps she thinks she can do better; there’s no know- 
ing.” 

“ I never was more astonished in my life!” cried Amanda; “ and, 
oh! Mr. Tomlyn, how well you bear it!” 

“ Well, what else is there for one to do?” he answered. “ You 
wouldn’t have me cry like a girl, Mrs. Brooke?” 

“ 1 feel as if I could cry for you,” she said, and applied her hand- 
kerchief to her eyes. 

“ I can’t say, you know,” said Mr. Tomlyn, gathering some con- 
fidence sheerly {hrough the force of Amanda’s sympathy, “ that I 
feel so very much. I certainly liked what 1 saw^ of Miss Brooke 
when she was staying at Mrs. Williams’s. There’s plenty piettier 
in the world,” and he glanced at Amanda; “ but 1 thought she was 
bright and clever, and managing, and would make a man, who 
wanted some one to study his comforts and his home, a good wife. 
I didn't want money. I’ve enough of my own, and I always have 
said that no man should marry till he can afford to keep his wife. 
Well, she didn’t see it a year ago, and 1 can’t say 1 broke my heart. 
A man in business, Mrs. Brooke, lias something else to do than cry- 
like a child because a 3 ^oiing lady thinks fit to say him no. When 
1 saw^ her down here, I thought she was wonderfully improved ; but 
still I was in no hurry to try again, as you know; but this Christ- 
mas I thought it really was time that I was settled in life, and so 1 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 191 

spoke to her again— and— and— this time, 1 suppose, there’s really 
an end of it.” 

“ It’s incomprehensible!” cried Amanda. 

“Well, it does seem puzzling, looking at the thing all round,” 
said Mr. Tomlyn. “ I really don’t think I ought to have so much 
trouble in getting a wife — eh, Mrs. Brooke?” 

“ Oh, Mr. Tomlyn, no!” and then Amanda’s utterance was choked 
by sobs. 

“ 1 know I’ve made a fool of myself, and that’s not a pleasant 
feeling,” said Mr. Tomlyn. “A man doesn’t like to be thrown 
over as if he was not worth the taking.” 

“ Not xcortJi the taking V" said Amanda, almost below her breath; 
and then there was another sob, 'which somehow Mr. Tomlyn was 
very well pleased to hear. 

“ I’m not unreasonable. I don’t think I should expect too much 
of a wife,” said Mr. Tomlyn. “I want a woman who doesn’t 
think herself so clever as to be above looking after my house and 
my servants: who has some idea that a man likes to have something 
to do with the spending of the money he makes and the house he 
pays rent for. I’m sure I’m ready to do my part.” 

“ I’m sure of that,” said Amanda, with a sigh. 

“ If I could meet with such a woman.” 

“ Oh, Mr Tomlyn — if T' 

Mr. Tomlyn stood up by the tire, with his back to it. He felt 
firmer and stronger now that he was on his legs. He was close by 
Amanda, looking dowm on her, and, as the firelight, as much of it as 
he did not intercept, fell on her, he thought her prettier than ever, 
because, perhaps, of the touch of pity m her face for him. He had 
made up his mind what to do. If she was a widow, was that any' 
reason why she should remain one all her life? And it was not as 
if she had a parcel of children— he had heard her speak of some — 
perhaps she had had ono or two, but they all appeared to have 
died. It Was an awkward thing to do to propose to a woman within 
an hour of being refused by another, but she seemed ready to help 
him over the awkwardness. 

“ I know I’ve been a fool,” he said again, “in more ways than 
one. Mrs. Brooke, can’t you guess the particuar way I mean?” 

Amanda looked down and said nothing. 

“ If— if— I hadn’t seen Miss Brooke before 1 came here — and first 
impressions go a long way — or if 1 had seen some one else before I 
had seen her; if, indeed, I had thought that I had the ghost of a 
chance with some one else — Mrs. Brooke, do you think 1 have any 
chance?” 

“ If — Oh, Mr. Tomlyn! what shall I say?” 

One of Amanda’s pretty white hands was outstretched ever so. 
little, and Mr. Tomlyn caught it in his own two large ones; and 
then the next moment, taking care, however, that the fire did not 
burn his coat tails, he was down on his knees by her side, and 
brushing his mustache against her soft, pink cheek. When he rose 
from his knees he was an engaged man. 


192 


SOME OP OUR GIRLS. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A STEP-FATHER ELECT. 

Mr. Sampson was very well satisfied when Mr. Tomlyn pre- 
sented himself before him as his niece’s suitor. It was only proper 
that every woman should marry, and if she had the misfortune to 
lose her husband early, the sooner, consistently, of course, with 
all propriety, she replaced him the better. 

“Amanda will make you a good wife,” he said; “she isn’t so 
clever as some, and perhaps her husband will have to find head- 
piece for both in some things; but there’s no harm in that. She’ll 
have sense enough to manage the house and look after the servants, 
and what more can be wanted of a woman?” 

“ .Nothing that I can see,” said Mr. Tomlyn; “ if a man is to be 
master in his own house, that is.” 

“ There’s no fear of that with Mandie. She’s a good little soul, 
and uncommon affectionate. I shall miss her terribly, but I’m not 
going to stand in her way, and 1 shall do what is right by her; she 
won’t come to you empty-handed, Tomlyn.” 

“ Pd just as soon that the did. When a man can afford to keep a 
wife, he needn’t look out for money. But, however, you’ll see tW 
all she has is settled on herself?” 

I “I’ll take care of that; and it will be as well for her to have 
something of her own coming in, if only on account of the children. 
1 suppose you’ll have them to live with you? Amanda’s been a 
good girl. She knew that, never having had a family, I couldn’t, 
at my time of life, put up with youngsters, and so she’s left her 
two little ones with her sisters. Sometimes I have thought it was 
hard upon her, poor girl; and told her she ought to have them with 
her, if only for a month. But she wouldn’t hear of it. Poor 
Mandie! she’s a considerate little soul!” said Uncle Sampson, who, 
like some of us, valued people’s consideration mostly as it affected 
himself. 

“ I don’t quite understand,” said Mr. Tomlyn, doubtfully. 
A manda had spoken of children to him certainly, but he Had always 
imagined that they were in the past tense, and had died before their 
father. Mr. Sampson spoke of them as still living. A widow 
with children! The widowhood was an unpleasant fact, which he 
had found some diflSculty in getting over, but the children! 

“ Amanda has two little ones!” said Mr. Sampson, rather testily. 

You don’t mean to say that you’ve insisted on the poor little soul’s 
keeping them at her sisters’? Then upon my word it’s more than you 
ought to expect of her. At my time of life it’s all very well. It’s 
late in the day for me to learn how to put up with youngsters; 
but with you ” 

“ I dare say I shall make no great difificulty about them,” said 
Mr. Tomlyn, “ only I didn’t quite understand.” 

He felt ashamed to let Mr, Sampson know that he was not aware 
of the existence of these children. The old gentleman would either 


t 


SOME OF OLTR GIRLS. 


193 


laugh at him or insist on matters being broken off altogether. And 
although Mr. Tomlyn felt himself a little ill-used by Amanda, — 
had, in fact, a vague, uncomfortable idea that he had been taken 
in, — he could not reconcile himself to his last alternative. To be 
twice rejected!— to go back toLondonstilldisengagedl— for it would 
be tantamount to a rejection, if Uncle Sampson were to break mat- 
ters off between him and his niece, because he showed a want of 
fatherly warmth toward his niece’s children. 

“ It’ll be hard upon Mandie to be separated from her children the 
whole of her life,” said Uncle Sampson. He had never thought of 
that hardship before, but it occurred to him with great force now. 

She’s put up with it for my sake, but, of course, when she has 
a home of her own, things will be different; and they’re nice little 
tots, three and four years old. Why, Tomlyn,” — and the old gen- 
tleman chuckled — “ you’ll be set up with a wife and family all at 
once.” 

Mr. Tomlyn smiled. It was impossible, he felt, to break off with 
Amanda, because he found that she had two children of whose 
existence he was not aware. Neither was he quite sure that he did 
wish to break off. Amanda was very pretty; he was not sure that 
even if he had known of the existence of the children, he should 
not have proposed to her all the same, and he did not feel that he 
had any right to accuse her of intentional deception. IShe had 
spoken of children several times — of their ailments and deaths, but 
she had certainly omitted all mention of these living ones; still, it 
might have been an accident— it migTit have been, but he did not 
feel quite sure, and it would be best, in any case, to come to an 
understanding now. 

“Your uncle is quite agreeable,” he said to Amanda. “Of 
course, 1 didn’t expect that he would be anything else; only 1 didn’t 
rightly understand him, 1 think, about the children.” 

He hardly knew how to put his meaning more explicitly. Had 
she, or had she not, deceived him? He looked keenly at her while 
he spoke. Was this simple, innocent little creature, after all, more 
clever than he had given her credit for being? 

Amanda raised her handkerchief to her eyes. “ Little darlings! 
Oh, Mr. Tomlyn, 1 never let Uncle Sampson know it. 1 couldn’t, 
when he’s always been so good; but what it has been for me to be 
separated from my treasures, no one can imagine.” 

“I dare say it was trying. 1 suppose so,” said Mr. Tomlyn. 
“ But, of course, it’s not a thing I can judge of myself. But it’s 
odd, isn’t it, you never mentioned them before?” 

“ It was Uncle Sampson! I wouldn’t have him think for a mo- 
ment that I was fretting after ray darlings. What it has cost me to 
look cheerful and pleased when my heart has been with them, 
nobody knows! But 1 couldn’t tell him, so that I made up my 
mind never even to speak of them. 1 always felt as if 1 should 
break down if I did.” 

Amanda made use of her pocket-handkerchief again, but, this 
time, with not so good effect as usual. 

“ You might have spoken of them to me,” said Mr. Tomlyn. “ It 
would have made no difference, of course — none in the least; but 
still you might have spoken of them.” 

7 


194 


SOME OF OUK GIRLS. 


“ Ah! how glad I should have been to have done sol” cried^ 
Amanda. ” Only to have had anj'- one with whom I could have 
talked of them and their little ways! And if 1 had ever thought — 
if I had only known,”— and then, as she could not blush, she turned 
her head away from him, which answered the purpose, — “ that — 
that — you were about to become their father; but, as it was— oh! 
Mr. Tomlyn, how could 1 thinK— how could 1 dream— that you 
would care to lislen to my silly talk about my little ones, when it is 
only in the last hour that I knew you even cared for me?” 

This was unanswerable. Why should she have talked to him 
about her children, when their existence appeared to be a matter of 
no possible importance to him. it was unanswerable, but it was not 
convincing. There was an uncomfortable suspicion in Mr. Tom- 
lyn’s mind that he had been overreached; that those little innocents 
had been kept in the background with a purpose; and that Uncle 
Sampson was not entirely aswerable for this. 

” It makes no difference,” he said again, after rather an awkward 
pause; ‘‘ still 1 wonder you hadn’t mentioned them sooner.” 

But, children or no children, he was an engaged man, and ha 
went up to London the next day, feeling that he ” couldn’t back out 
of the thing ” now and not quite sure that he was really desirous of 
doing so; but still with a mortified, uneasy feeling that he had been 
over-reachea in the bargain which he had made. 


CHAPTER XL 

GORDON THINKS HE HAS NOT BEEN THE WISEST OF MEN. 

There were long winter evenings in which Gordon Tynsdell sat 
by his fireside to think over new remedies, or study strange forms 
of disease, or drove through mirk and gloom to fight his hard battle 
with Death at a patient’s bedside; sometimes to be worsted, and 
sometimes to conquer. And there were bright spring days in which 
the doctor took his long rounds, when the early violet made the 
whole air sweet, and the little children, going to and from school, 
touched their caps, or made their courtesies, and their mothers looked 
kindly and gratefully after the grave, thoughtful face, which had 
sometimes been as a messenger of God unto them. But, winter and 
spring through, Gordon Tynsdell’s work was increasing, and bis 
pride in it, and his love for it were growing daj’^ by day: he began 
more and more to feel that he had made a fatal mistake, which was 
spoiling his life for him. 

How could he have done it? If ever a woman was loyal and true 
to the heart’s core, surely it was this Pauline Brooke, whom he had 
believed to be a false, heartless jilt, keeping one lover in hand while 
she was leading on another, and calculating which it would best an> 
swer her purpose to marry. That was what he had been ready to 
think her, just because that arrant simpleton, Mrs. Brooke, had 
told him so. And why should he have believed her? He did not 
think Amanda anything worse than a simpleton, with a shallow 
head, and not much heart in her composition. But she might easily 
have been mistaken, and, before he had believed her story, he might 
have sifted it to the bottom. Surely Polly might have a letter every 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


195 


week from her cousin in India without being engaged to him! 
All this winter, and all through the days that lengthened into spring, 
he had seen so much of her. Mrs. Danvers had been ailing again, 
and nothing would be of benefit but Mr. Tynsdell’s constant at- 
tendance; and so he was frequently seeing Polly in the faded state- 
linesc of the Hall — looking as true a lady, tradesman's child though 
she was, as any one of its long line of daughters; sweet, and 
polished, and graceful, with that delicate, subtle air of soflened 
womanliness, of tender refinement, which sorrow rightly borne 
sometimes gives a girl in the morning of her life — making her, per- 
haps, more of the woman than she should be by her years, but more 
of the angel also. And there was illness in the village that winter. 
It was long and damp; and a place which has been going on for a 
hundred years or so, as if there was no such things as sanitary laws 
in God’s world, or as if an Archbishop’s prayer would persuade 
Him to overlook their infraction, cannot be rendered altogether fit 
for men and women to live in, even by two of the best disposed 
young ladies in the world, in the course of one short twelvemonth. 
And wherever he went, if he heard much praise of Miss Pembury’s 
kindness and generosity, he heard still more of Miss Brooke’s ten- 
derness and forethought. - And he met her in the cottages, practi- 
cal, busy, helpful, but tender and patient, too, with the ignorance 
that could not be taught to see aright at once; but always there was 
the wall of ice between them. In the Hall or in the cottage, though 
they met again and again, and spoke as friends and intimates, 
Pauline Brooke was infinitely more removed from him than she had 
been when she stood by his side beneath the railway arch while 
the rain came pouring down, and for her sake he had asked the lost 
workhouse girl about her child. 

He could not speak of marriage to her, now. He felt that he had 
let tlie time go by, and it might never come again. He had been so 
near to her once; it seemed as if it only wanted a word on his part 
— and 'now that word must be for ever unspoken. Miss Brooke 
was gracious, and kind, and friendly; but she was Miss Brooke; 
as far apart from him as if she had been a queen — a woman whom 
it was impossible to approach with a look or sign of love — who 
seemed as if she could have petrified him if guilty of such presump- 
tion. Oh! miserable. The door had been open once, and was now 
closed in his face for evermore. 

He was a cleverer man by far than his half-brother Horace, but it 
seemed to him that be had made as great a failure of his life at its 
very outset. If Pauline Brooke was lost to him, it was more than 
doubtful whether he should ever find the woman he could put in 
her place. He was not one to be easily satisfied with a wife. He 
could not content himself with a woman who, however clever she 
might be in her household duties, had no thougl^it beyond them. A 
housekeeper would have sufficed him in that case, without his en- 
tering into the bondage of marriage with her. Neither would any 
amount of w^atchfulness and submissive affection atone for the en- 
tire want of intellectual companionship. It was not a spaniel that 
he wanted to cringe at his feet and worship him with eyes that saw 
no flaw, but a woman to walk by his side, and help him, and be 
helped herself, in their joint way through life. Now, he should 


196 


SOME OE OUB GIKLS. 


have to walk alone, in all probability, through the remainder of 
his days, and the prospect was not a pleasant one. 

Perhaps Polly bore the estrangement that had come between them 
better than did he. She, at least, was blameless. After the first 
hitler smart of wounded pride, she felt that she had nothing to re- 
proach herself with. There was a great pain, and however numbed 
and deadened, it would be felt, she knew, more or less, all her life; 
for she had lomd Gordon Tynsdell. And love, to Polly— to a girl 
to whom even fiiitations were unknown ways of passing the time — 
meant something very different to what it does to those young ladies 
who have two or three tender passions every season, and change 
their loves as they do their fashions. Polly had never had time, 
she would have said, for anything of that kind; and it was a mercy 
that, having made what she considered the one great mistake of her 
life, she had no leisure now to sit down and weep over it. 

She saw Gordon Tynsdell’s repentance, and saw, too, that he 
wished to put things back on their old footing. But she had her 
own explanation for this. “ Amanda has thrown him off for the 
sake of Mr. Tomlyn, and, 1 suppose, sooner than have no wife at 
all, he would come back to me. Thanks, Mr. Tynsdell, for the 
honor, but 1 should never care to marry the man whom Amanda 
could content. 

Polly was not likely to marry at all, now. She felt as if any 
second love would be impossible for her. 

“ I shall stay here as long as 1 am wanted,’’ she said; “ and if 
Millicent never marries, which seems likely now, I shall be her hus- 
band instead of Mr. Tynsdell’s wife.” 

And, in the friendship bet^^en the two girls, that seemed almost 
Polly’s position — not an uncommon one for the stronger to assume 
when two women cast their lot together. 

When the spring was far advanced, and the orchard trees were 
white with apple-blossoms, Gordon Tynsdell had a letter from his 
brother Horace. He had not heard from him for some time — there 
was nothing to write about according to Horace. There was no 
news— what news could he have to tell? And so the weeks and 
the months drifted on, and his brother had not heard of him. ISlow 
he wrote to say that Adela was ill — seriously, dangerously ill, he 
believed. He had tried one doctor after another, and, all alike, 
with the same result; she was no better. Would Tynsdell come, if 
only for a night, and say what he thought of her? 

1 could go this very afternoon,” thought Tynsdell, when he had 
read the letter. ” 1 have not been so much at leisure for months. 
1 can spend the evening with them, and study Adela at my lei- 
sure, and come down by the first train in the morning. It will only 
be getting this day’s round over a little earlier, and beginning to- 
morrow’s a little later than usual.” 

TJie post came in early, so that he was able to start on his rounds 
an hour sooner than usual. And, the spring having improved all 
the ailments away that the winter had been troubling people with, 
he had very soon got through his morning’s work— so soon, that 
he found himself at the Holmes in good time for luncheon, with 
the whole afternoon stretcning out fair and clear before him, and 
offering an unwonted expanse of leisure. 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


197 

Whenever he heard from Horace, he had been in the habit of call- 
ing on Mrs. Gordon, and letting her know, he bad had some tidings 
of him. Between the mother and son there was no correspondence. 
If half a world had been between them, nay, if the grave itself had 
intervened, the separation could hardly have been more complete. 
But still Tynsdell knew that Mrs. Gordon was hungering and 
thirsting for word of the absentee, and that he was never so wel- 
come as when he took her such word. 

“ I am going to London by this afternoon’s train,” he said to 
her, and she knew by his manner whom he was going to see. 

“HaS'he — has Horace sent for you?” she said. It was always 
with a spasm of pain that she uttered her son’s name. 

“ Yes — he wants me to see her. His wife is very ill — much worse 
than when he was here.” 

She was silent for a time; then she looked up. “ The thought 
will haunt me that, if she w ere to die, my son might be my own 
again! Ho, never as he was; all my pride and joy in him are gone; 
but still he would be my own once more. I know that it is wicked 
of me, —I know that he has sinned against Millicent Pembury almost 
as much as that woman did against her husband, — 1 know that I am 
unjust; but still, while the world does mete out such different judg- 
ment to erring men than it does to fallen women, I can’t, do what l 
will, 1 can’t help feeling that my son’s life might be begun again if 
she were removed from it. And we can’t alter the world, — there 
is no fresh beginning possible for her.” 

Presently she said, “ I don’t know in what manner they are liv- 
ing. Horace, of course, draws whatever he requires from the estate^ 
and everything that money can give he is quite able to give her, but 
still he might think that she would do better here. He might even, 
fancy that she would be benefited by being under your care. And 
there are many comforts, even luxuries, here that he could hardly 
have in any furnished house in the neighborhood of London. And 
she is his wife, and this is his rightful home. I am ready to leave 
it at a day’s notice, if he wishes to bring her here. Tell liim that.” 

“ He will never come here, if his doing so causes you to go. If 
you would give him one word of forgiveness!” 

” If I forgive him, I must forgive her — if she is living when I 
give such forgiveness. 1 can’t help giving different measure to 
these two sinners in my heart, but outwardly, at least, let me be 
just. And I never can take that woman’s hand or look upon her 
as a daughter.” 

When he was going, Tynsdell said to her again, — “Won’t you 
give me one word — one message for him but what you have said?” 

“ Nothing. I am ready to leave this house if he wishes to return 
to it: but if I were to look upon him again as my son, I must look 
on her as my daughter, and I cannot do it.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

TREATS OF NOVEL READING. 

Gordon Tynsdell went up to London that afternoon, and was 
at Fulham by seven o’clock. He found his brother in an old-fash- 
ioned house, which modern improvements had mercifully spared. 


198 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 


It was a pretty little place enough, and surrounded by a garden. 
The rooms were small and low, but there were plenty of them. 
But the garden, and the privacy of the situation, had attracted Hor- 
ace Gordon to it. “ Adela used to be able to walk in the garden 
every day when we first came,” said Horace; “she scarcely ever 
leaves her room now; but you4l see her after dinner.” 

The dinner was a quiet one. Horace had very little to say. He 
was depressed and dull, and let Tynsdell start what subject he 
would, seemed unable to keep up with it. His seemed a lost life 
altogether. “ If he goes on much longer like this, he will die from 
the head downwards,” thought Tynsdell. 

Horace had given up his club. He fancied some of the men looked 
shyly on him. Very likely it was only fancy. He was not a 
woman, to have such judgment meted out to him as women mete 
out to one another. &, at least, whatever Adela mighi have done, 
had not sinned inexpiably. He had never been much of a reader, 
and had not the mental stamina necessary to take up a course of 
study. Ho absolutely had not the least idea what to do with the 
days that seemed so endless. “ There’s no use in hiding the fact,” 
he said; “I have made a mull of my life, and can’t set it right. 
There was just the right place for me. 1 should have wanted noth 
ing better than the position 1 was born to; and 1 have gone and lost 
It, and can’t take any other.” 

When dinner was over, he took Tinsdell to Adela’s room. The 
latter was struck by the peculiarities of the house as he went out. 
“ Two staircases?” he said. “ Isn’t she rather shut away from the 
rest of the house?” 

“ It was her own wish. These rooms are quieter than any others. 
She is not troubled by either the noise or the smell of the kitchen 
here, and one has rather too much of both in the other part of the 
house. Then the sitting-room has a large balcony, with a veranda, 
where she can be carried when she is well enough — though it’s a 
fortnight since she cared to be taken out, even there. And there is 
a little room opening out of the bedroom for her maid. She did 
sleep on a couch at the foot of the bed, but she snored so heavily as 
to disturb Adela, so she had her to sleep in the dressing-room.” 

“She should have some one with her who is a quiet sleeper. 
And a girl who snores loudly is likely to sleep heavily,” said Tyns- 
dell. 

“ Adela likes the girl, and won’t part with her. And she has one 
good quality, that of being able to read aloud very well.” 

They were now at the door of Adela’s apartment, and the hand- 
maid in question opened it for them. She was a tall, stout girl, 
with rather a heavy-looking face, looking— as was indeed the case 
—an importation from the country. She appeared civil and good- 
tempered, and, even if she did snore at night, it was possible, Tyns- 
dell thought, that Mrs. Horace Gordon might have a worse waiting- 
maid. 

Adela was on a couch in her sitting-room. She was fearfully, ter- 
ribly altered, since he had last seen her. She looked thin, exhaust- 
ed, broken; but there was no fever, no cough. She ought not to 
be so ill. There seemed, as far as Tynsdell could judge, no real 


SOME OF OUE GIRLS. 199 

disease to account for it; and yet he felt that she was dying. When 
they were alone, sbe told him as much. 

“ I don’t think 1 shall live to see the autumn. I don’t think I 
can. I get weaker and weaker every day.” 

He put various questions to her, and, at the conclusion, looked 
fairly puzzled. 

” You ought to get better,” he said, at last. “ There is no earthly 
reason you should not—only ” 

“ Only that 1 have nothing to live for,” she said, with a fain^ 
smile. ” I suppose 1 am dying of what is called a broken heart. It 
will be a mercy when I am gone. Horace can start afresh in life- 
then, and I — why the best, the only thing for me, is to die, and 
be forgotten. Life is one long pain. It isn’t that I suffer bodily, 
but I can't forget. 1 don’t wonder at women taking to drink— lo- 
brandy— laudanum — when they are in such a case as mine. Well, 
I haven’t come to that, yet, and it is best to die before one does.”” 

” I think I might do something for you ” 

” Why should you try? 1 am slipping out of the world quietly. 
It is best that T should go. Horace wanted you to come, and I an^ 
always glad to see you; but you can do me no good. When I am 
gone, he will have his mother, and — and — Millicent Pembury. She 
is a good, innocent girl, I believe; but if she is such a girl as I was, 
as all the girls were I’ve ever known, she won’t think herself toe 
good for him then. A man is forgiven his sin almost before he re- 
pents it; but for me— why, if you were a woman instead of a man, 
you would tell me, that let me repent as I might, I could' not be for- 
given in this world, and hardly in the next.” 

Tynsdell sat with her a little longer, and then he went down, feel- 
ing it would not be very long before Horace was free, as she had 
said, to begin his life again. 

When he was gone, Adela’s maid helped her mistress into the 
bedroom, which opened out of the sitting-room, and then into her 
bed. Then she made up the fire, for the spring nights were chilly, 
and A.dela very sensitive to cold. After that, she sat down to react 
her mistress to sleep, as it was her custom generally to do. The- 
book was a novel. Adela seemed crowning the sins of her life by 
having novels read to her on her death-bed. But what else could 
she do? When the body is weakened, the mind is not very well 
able to undertake a course of serious reading, either scientific or 
otherwise; and as to ” good ” books, so called, they are generally 
the dullest and tamest of reading. A.dela wanted — as do a great 
many other invalids, not half such sinners as was she, unhappy 
creature! — to be taken out of her own wretched self for a time — to 
forget her own miseries and pains in the troubles and sorrows of 
others. Maria, her waiting-maid, was almost as much interested in 
the book as her mistress. It was slightly sensational, and they 
were in the third volume. She read on and on for above an hour, 
and would have gone on for another, if Adela had not said, 
drowsily, — 

” That will do now. Put out the lights, and go to bed.” 

Maria put out one candle, and took the other into her own little 
room, having first lit the night-light in her mistress’s apartment. 
She took the third volume with her. Why couldn’t Mrs. Gor- 


200 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


don have kept awake till she had finished it? To fall asleep like 
that, when it was impossible to tell whether the story would 
end happily or otherwise! Maria was terribly vexed, and then she 
thought she would sit up in her own little slip of a room and finish 
the book. But her mistress might wake and want her before she 
had done, and then she would be an^ry with her for not having 
undressed and gone to bed, as she had told her. Why not read it in 
bed? If she nearly closed the door, her mistress, having the night- 
light burning in her own room, would not see that the candle was 
still lit in hers, and she could complete the story. Maria loved 
novels dearly. They were to her what drink was to the cook, who 
spent three fourths of her wages in gin, — what lovers and flirting 
were to the housemaid, who had never less than three followers at 
a time. It was the only mode of excitement her otherwise dull 
phlegmatic nature cared for; and there are, perhaps, worse modes 
of excitement than a novel, especially if it be a fairly good one. 
Only, the best time to read it is hardly when in bed, especially if 
the reader is naturally of a drowsy nature, and inclined to sleep 
heavily. 


CHAPTER XLIi. 

AN AWFUL WAKING. 

Tynsdell found his brother sitting, with his cigar for company, 
in the dining-room when he entered it. He looked up. 

“ Well, what do you think of her?” 

‘‘Dying.” 

“ Dying ! and it’s only three years since I first saw her, and she 
was then as bright, and happy, and handsome a girl as any in the 
kingdom. Dying ! well, she and 1 have paid for our folly. My life 
is a wreck and ruin, and hers—” 

“ Is nearly over.” 

“ Poor thing — poor thing!” he said again, and then seemed busy 
in breaking the ashes from his cigar. He was sorry for Adela, but 
his brother could see that this news had its compensation. He had 
done what he could for her as far as material comforts went, and he 
had made her the one reparation in his power; but his life had been 
very wearisome to him, and the wages of his sin very bitter. If the 
partner of his sin were dead, the sin would be a dead thing too. He 
was kind-hearted, and he had liked Adela very much at one time, 
and he was sorry for her now ; but still he could not help feeling, 
though he would not own it to himself, that her death would be the 
best thing possible for him. 

The two sat and smoked, and talked at intervals, and another 
liour wore on, and then Tynsdell rose. 

“ I must be off early in the morning. I have promised Adela to 
see her, if she is awake; but if I were to stay here a month 1 could 
do her no good.” 

Horace went with him to his room. 

” This is but a small house to have two separate staircases,” said 
Tynsdell. “ However, Adela is quiet enough in her part of the 
house.” 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


201 

“ It is an addition made to the main building some years after that 
was erected, and it was easier to make another staircase than to 
open a communication with this,’^ said Horace. 

“ Well, they seem comfortable quarters for an invalid, and tho 
girl she has with her appears kind and attentive; but she is young, 
and it is hardly right for those two to be so shut away from the rest 
of the house as they are.” 

“ Adela's bell can be heard in the kitchen, and, indeed, all over 
the house, ’ ’ said Horace. 

“ But in the night, when the servants are not in the kitchen, but 
shut up in their own bedrooms, and snoring, perhaps, as heavily a& 
the one she has with her, it is not Well that she should be left with . 
only that one. And it is just in the night that anything might hap- 
pen— very suddenly,” he added, with a slowness that gave full 
meaning to his words. I suppose,” he added, after a pause, 

‘ ; there is no way of getting to her rooms but down the staircase by 
which we have just come, and up the other? They are quit-e 
isolated?” 

” Quite so. To tell you the truth, I never gave that a thought. 
Adela slept in the next room to this which I now occupy, alone, till 
the last six weeks. Then she took a fancy to those rooms, on ac- 
count of their quietness. She thought, too, it would be better far 
her to be able to leave her bedroom for a sitting-room without being 
obliged to go downstairs to it. And she was not nearly so bad as 
she is now when she went there: so that the situation of the rooms 
never struck me in the light that it did you, at once.” 

Let her stay in the rooms, by all means, if she likes them; but 
it is not right that she should have no other help than that girl’s at 
hand in case of a sudden change. You had better have a profes- 
sional nurse in — a good one if possible; they are to be met with, if 
you take a little pains; but, by all means let her have the girl near 
her still, as she likes and is accustomed to her.” 

When, at last, Gordon Tynsdell did get to his bed, he slept 
heavily enough. He was tired with his morning’s work, and the 
railway journey that had followed it; and not all his pity for the 
miserable household into which he had been called could deaden the 
pleasant consciousness that there was no night-bell here to rouse 
him from his slumbers at their soundest. Poor Adela would not be 
likely to trouble him. There was no immediate danger in her case. 

” She may linger, flickering weakly on, till the winter comes,” 
was his thought; ” then a little cold and a cough, and puff! the 
poor thing will be gone. But, at any rate, she ought not to be shut 
away from the rest of the house, and only that girl with her^” 

How long he slept, he never knew; but he was roused out of his 
sleep by a sharper summons than the most imperative pull at his 
night-bell that had ever yet been given by anxious husband or 
parent. It was a woman’s 'shriek — loud, shrill, piercing. He sat 
up in his bed— it was the habit of his life— for his senses to come to 
his call the moment he a^voke from slumber, and they did not desert 
him now. The house is on fire, and those two vromen, in the wing 
by themselves, are shut out from help, and it is there the ^fire is 
fiercest. 

That was his intuitive conviction, and he sprang up prepared to 


202 


SOME OF OUE GIELS. 


act upon it. He was dressed, as far as dress was needful under 
such circumstances, in a second; and then he opened his door. He 
found the servants huddling together on the stairs, a blanket round 
She cook, who having an idea that, in case of fire, it is best to make 
what salvage one can out of the wreck, had seized a bonnet-box 
which held [a few clean caps and aprons, and was clutching them 
convulsively, staring round with half-open eyes, as if she had not 
yet slept off the effects of her nightly dose of gin. The housemaid 
was by her side, with a patchwork quilt around her, which, even in 
her fright, the girl had pulled coquettishly over her head. The 
man-servant, roused by the shrieks, stood half-dressed, with a jug 
of water in one hand, the tongs in the other, uncertain whether it 
was fire or thieves that he was called on to face, but ready to do 
his duty in either case, if only his fright and bewilderment would 
let him. And a horrible fitful light fell on this group, as every now 
and then forked tongues of flame shot from the other end of the 
building, and on Horace, as he came out of his room. 

“ (Save yourselves!” cried Tyusdell to the servants; “ and get out 
of the house as fast as you can!” He turned to his brother. 
“Adela!” 

Yes, Adela! The two rushed headlong down the stairs, and up 
the flight that led to the rooms where the two women, mistress and 
maid, were in such peril. What did it matter to Horace that one 
of those women had been the ruin of his life? — that her death would 
be his social salvation? If she had been the dearest thing the world 
could hold, if her death would make the whole world henceforth a 
blank, he could not have rushed more eagerly to rescue her from the 
horrible fate that seemed impending. 

She had fainted in the presence of her danger; but the girl by her 
bedside was rushing to and fro, blinded by smoke and vapor, and 
too terrified to know how to seek her escape. She had woke out of 
her sleep, into which she had fallen while ''reading her book, and 
found her bed-curtains in flames. It was her shrieks that had 
roused the house, and, like a maddened thing, she was now trying 
to escape from the fire that seemed everywhere around her, and had 
caught hold of the light garment she wore. 

Adela Gordon had s'wooned with fright, and now lay in her bed, 
motionless and unconscious. Her husband raised her in his arms, 
and, as he did so, Gordon Tynsdell, telling him to put a blanket 
round her, seized another, and wrapped it tightly around the 
shrieking girl. There was not a second to be lost — the fire had 
seized the very flooring. The panels of the room were of wood, 
and they were crackling and falling in. Smoke and flame seemed 
to bar their way out at the door. “ There is nothing for it but the 
way we came,” cried Tynsdell, giving one look at the window. 
Both the women they had come to save were so utterly helpless, the 
one maddened, the other as if dead with fright, that there was no 
possibility of escape by the window, which would else have been 
the safer way. Only the staircase, on which every instant the flames 
were gaining. Tynsdell was the nearer to the door, and he half- 
tore, half-dragged his burden there. In another second — how he 
bad done it he could not tell — but with singed hair, with scorched 
skin, he and she stood in safety below; and, as he turned to look 


SOME OF OUK GIELS. 


for his brother, there was a crash, a sound as of falling timber, and 
then, with a dull, heavy thud, Horace and the helpless woman he 
was bearing were hurled to the earth, with a mass of woodwork, 
and rafters, and debris falling on them. 


CHAPTER XLiri. 

THE TELEGRAM. 

Polly and Millicent were at work together that afternoon in the 
room which was especially set apart for their multifarious occupa- 
tions. The warm spring sunshine lit ur the garden, which was 
blooming with early flowers; through the open window the smell of 
the lilacs came in, mingling with the song of the birds; and Polly 
herself, in her bright, pretty dress, was chattering almost as fast as 
they chirruped. 

For let it not be for a moment imagined that Polly was, in the 
proper and sentimental sense of the word, at all heart-broken be- 
cause of that foolish love-fit of hers. She bad bad a great trouble 
to bear, and she had to bear it still; but then she did bear it, brave- 
ly, womanfully, just as a girl should do who knows that love, in the 
ordinary sense* of the term, is not the be-all and end-all of the exist- 
ence of either man or woman. “ Men have long ago settled that 
love is not all they have to live for,” Polly said to herself, “ and it is 
quite time that women were of the same opinion.” Polly, at any 
rate, was of that opinion, and acted upon it. And yet her love 
for Gordon Tynsdell was worth a hundred of the inane mockeries 
of passion and** afiection which young ladies are apt to dignify by 
that name. 

Millicent had been ready to die for love, just because, at that pre- 
cise time, she hardly knew^ what else to do with herself; and to die 
when your life seems thrown on your hands, and you v.ro quite at a 
loss what to do with it, is about all that it occurs to people of weak 
mental and physical stamina to do. But she could never have lived 
for her love as Polly would have done for hers. She would have 
made sacrifices, if there had been need of such; but she could not, 
like her friend, have made them so that they should seem no sacri- 
fices at all. Polly would have gone to the wilds of Canada, or 
shared a garret in the poorest London street, with Gordon Tyns- 
dell; but she was not going to spoil her life because it was not to 
be spent with him. 

Tiiey were talking over their last undertaking, the so-called “ Re- 
formatory,” into which they had received Miss Bligh’s waifs. She 
ha<l just sent them doWn one more — a little nameless, parentless 
creature, of five years old, whom Polly had now installed as pet and 
plaything to the elder girls. 

‘‘ She will do them a great deal of good. She will help us in 
converting them to the belief that they are human beings. We’ll 
try and make Christians of them afterward. But 1 think the one 
conversion must precede the other.” 

She was cutting out print dresses as she spoke. ” Pink for Susan,, 
the girl Icnged for it; and as it was to be her Sunday frock, it did 
seem a pity not to let her have it; besides, 1 do like to see them 




SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


hankering after a little finery. It’s a step in the right direction. It 
isn’t natural for anything feminine not to care for her looks.” 

The steps are very slow that they do take in the right direction,” 
said Millicent; “and if Mrs. Clare’s health were to fail, where 
should we be?” 

“We must look out for somebody in Mrs. Clare’s place,” said 
Polly, cheerfully. “ But I wish she had some help. If we could 
get some one younger and stronger, who might act under her. But 
I shouldn’t like to ask a girl in the village: they shrink from these 
poor creatures. If we had such a one as Madge.” 

“Madge?” 

“ Madge would be the right girl in the right place, as far as these 
poor lost ones are concerned. They couldn’t despise her; and there 
was a wonderful amount of work in Madge, and of kindness, too, 
if one could only find the way to it. But I’ve written, and I’ve 
written, and Madge never answers; so I suppose she has drifted 
away — God knows where.” 

And over Polly’s bright face there came a cloud, and the tears 
were in her eyes, but she went on with her work. 

“ I never could have undertaken these girls if it had not been for 
you,” said Millicent. “ But, then, what should I have undertaken 
if you had not prompted me? I seem always saying that. But this 
has been the hardest task of all.” 

“Mrs. Gordon has been a tower of strength, however,” said 
Polly. “Oh! these good Hertfordshire folks would have had ten 
times as much to say of the audacity, the effrontery, the impropriety 
of your doings, and especially of this last one, if it had not been 
for her.” 

“ A tower of strength ; yes, she always seems that,” said Milli- 
cent. “ And yet what she has had to bear!” she added, thought- 
fully. 

“ She is like you, Millicent. She has saved and blessed her own 
life in saving and blessing others,” said Polly softly. 

And, even as she spoke, the footman opened the door, and an- 
nounced Mrs. Gordon. 

She did not look much like a tower of strength now. She was 
generally pale, but her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes full of 
tears. She took Millicent’s hand in both of hers, and Millicent felt 
that she was trembling as she held them. “ What is it? What is 
it?” slie said, as she bent over her and drew her to a seat. 

“ This — this;” and Mrs. Gordon produced one of those long yel- 
low envelopes, which few women even yet can see with unmoved 
nerves. 

Millicent read, — ^ 

“ There was a fire at your son’s house last night. He was much 
injured in rescuing his wife. Boih are still living. 

“Gordon Tynsdell. 

“ 13 Montpelier Terrace, Fulham.” 

And Mrs. Gordon looked at her with a face that was trembling 
and quivering. .“ He does not ask me to go to my son, my son who 
is dying! Oh, Millicent! have 1 been toD hard, too stern in my con- 
demnation of his sin, that they think 1 will not go to him now?” 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


205 


“ You will go, dearest Mrs. Gordon, you will eo all the same?” 
asked Millicent, with tearful eyes. She was shocked, she was 
grievea inexpressibly at Horace Gordon’s misfortune, but she felt 
more for his mother than she did for him. There were times when 
it seemed as if he never could have been her lover, — when she 
seemed almost to forget that he had ever been anything l3ut her early 
playfellow and friend. So many other interests had crowded out 
this love. And then, too, love is to some women as religion is to 
many men, an easier thing to die than to live for. 

“Yes, 1 must go, 1 must go. Of course I must go,” she said, 
lookinn- round with a terrified gaze. ” Only how shall I bear the 
journey? Oh! to go on, and on, and on, and not know what may 
await me at the end!” 

The two girls interchanged looks, and then Millicent said, — 

“You are not fit to travel alone, dear Mrs. Gordon; Polly will 
go with you. Shall I ring anu order the carriage at once to take 
you to the biation?” 

“Oh, if she would!” cried the poor mother gratefully. “But 
don’t trouble about the carriage, my own’s coming, with the few 
things in it 1 may want. Of course, I felt that 1 must go, and — and 
stay with him as long as 1 was wanted. Oh, Millicent! how long 
may that be?” 

Polly had left the room to make her own preparations, and Mrs. 
Gordon paced restlessly up and down. “ 1 couldn’t wait at home 
alone, — I felt that 1 must come to ycu,” she said, ever and again. 
“ Oh, Millicent! have I been too unforgiving, and my son is dying 
now?” 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

Polly’s conqueror. 

Mrs. Gordon had recovered her outward composure by the time 
Polly and she arrived in London. To all appearance, she was her 
usual, sensible, self-possessed self when she got out of 'he cab at 
the door of 13 Montpeli^” Terrace. It wacj a lodging )use of a 
superior description, and its mistress had been very ready to offer 
the shelter of her roof to Mr. Horace Gordon and his wife; and 
being only a few yards from their own dismantled residence, they 
were easily conveyed to it. 

“lam Mr. Gordon’s mother,” said Mrs. Gordon, as the servant 
opened the door. And then she was afraid to put the question that 
was on her lips. 

“ I think he is going on pietty well, ma’am,” said the girl. 
“ Shall 1 call missis?” 

“ I would rather see Mr. Tynsdell, if he is here. Please show me 
into some room where 1 can do so.” 

“Mr. Tynsdell is with him, ma’am. He’s always with him or 
the poor lady. And they’ve had two other doctors ; and if you’ll 
step in here I’ll tell him.” 

“ 1 thought you would come,” Gordon Tynsdell said, as he took 
both her hands in his. “ I thought it was needless of me to tell 
you that. There is no immediate danger; with God’s blessing, we 
may yet pull him through.” 


206 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


And, that night, Mrs. Gordon took her place by her son’s bedside 
— took it as a matter of course. There was no question of forgive- 
ness. He was her son, and he needed.her. Equally as a matter of 
course, Polly installed herself by the bedside of the other patient, 
of whose very existence Mrs. Gordon, in her intense anxiety respect- 
ing her son, had seen?ed unconscious. And there were very many 
days and nights of watching for both, for it seemed, at first, as if 
Tynsdell had been a little too hopeful of his brother’s recovery. 
There was a time when he hung between life and death, or rather, 
death seemed the nearer of the two; but at last hope changed to 
certainty, and, one day, Tynsdell came out of the sick-room, with a 
brighter face than he had worn for wrecks. 

He went down-stairs for a little rest and quiet. But he wanted 
first to write to the medical friend who was taking charge of his 
patients for him down in Hertfordshire. The room he was in was 
the one in which Mrs. Gordon and Polly took their meals, and some 
few of Polly’s possessions were scattered about. He had hardly 
seated himself, when she came in for a book that she had been 
reading. 

The nurse is going to lie down,” she said, in the simple, matter- 
of-fact tone in which she always addressed him now— a tone that 
acted on him as a perpetual irritant, reminding him that she and he 
had nothing in common but their interest in the sufferers they were 
jointly attending. ” 1 am going to take her place; and as Mr. Gor- 
don is asleep, and likely to sleep for hours, 1 thought I should like 
to read.” 

“ I have good news for you,” he said. ” Dr. Bayle agrees now 
in the hopeful view I have all along taken of Horace. There is no 
doubt in his mind now, as there never has been in mine, that he 
will pull through, after all, and be as strong a man as ever.” 

” Thank God!” she said, devoutly. ” After all that we feared, it 
is as if he was given back to us from the dead.” 

” Something very like it. Yes, he has his life before him to begin 
afresh, and make what he can of it.” 

” 1 do hope he will make something of it now, for his mother’s 
sake.” 

” I hope so, too. One mistake, one error — one crime, even — 
should not spoil a man’s whole existence, should it, Miss Brooke? 
Is a man’s whole life to be set wrong because of a blunder?” 

“ In his case there seems to me to have been something more than 
a blunder,” she said, with heightened color. 

” I was not thinking of Hcfrace just then, I was thinking of my- 
self. Miss Brooke, give me five minutes. The nurse can wait a 
little longer, and your patient doesn’t need you yet. It is my own 
blunder, my own folly, for which 1 ask your pardon.” 

” I don’t exactly understand you, Mr. Tynsdell, and I should pre- 
fer going to my patient.” 

” Your patient can spare you very well for a few minutes. Miss 
B.hoke, a little time back, 1 think, you must have seen that my 
manner to you was that of a man anxious to ingratiate himself; if 1 
had asked you to become my wife, you would have had no reason for 
surprise — nay, it would have seemed the natural sequence of the at- 
tentions I was paying you. Then— then— there came a change. 1 


SOME OP OUll, GIRLS. 207 

hope — I think that I was al ways courteous, at least, but I took some 
pains to be nothing more.’’ 

“You were alw^ays that, and 1 had no right to expect anything 
more at your hands, Mr. Tynsdell.” And Polly’s generally bright, 
clear voice seemed now to utter words, petrified into icicles. 

“ Yes, you had. When a man pays a woman such attentions as 
I did you; when he tells her, in everything but words, that he thinks 
of her, cares for her, loves her! the next thing she has a right to ex- 
pect is that he should ask her to become his wife. Will you let me 
tell you why it was 1 stopped short of that point, and why I bore 
myself so differently to you?” 

“ I can tell you in a word, and that word is— Amanda.” 

“Will you "forgive me the mistake, the delusion? I have felt 
since it was one. 1 ask for no explanation on your part — 1 don’t 
deserve one. But will you let me give you mine?” 

“ There’s i.j occasion;” and Polly drew herself to her full height, 
which was not very much, after all. “ If you cared for Amanda, 
r.nd have found that the caring for her was the delusion, that you 
spoke of, there’s an end. That you could have cared for her, is 
sufficient for me.” 

“ Good Heavens! Miss Brooke^ ” 

“ You wer^' engaged to her, sir, till Mr. Tomlyn came in the way 
— or, t least, you were anxious to be so,” 

“ Did she tell you that? Then, Miss Brooke, let me tell you that 
i. was -.s much engaged to Mrs. Brooke as you were to your cousin 
in India, with whom you corresponded.” 

“ Poor dear Tom! Married nearly a twelvemonth! And you be- 
lieved that 1 w^as engaged to him; while— while ” then Polly’s 

pride gi.ve wv v, or, rather, asserted itself in a passion of indignant 
tears. “ Thai you could have thought it of me!” she said. 

“ And what did you think of me, Miss Brooke? That I was en- 
'^aged to your step-memma!” 

“ That’s ; I'Ogether different,” said Polly, with feminine logic. 

1 d( n’t see It. 3till, as you have made a mistake, can’t you for- 
give my making one, and trust yourself to me, no\T?” 

“I — I don’t know. 1 could never be happy with you if you 
doubt I me for a second.” 

“ I haven’t doubted you one-tenth part of the time that you have 
vl( iblsd me. 1 saw’ my blunder 1 * 5 ^ soon after I had made it, and 
1 made up my mind to believe in yon, if there wore a dozen cousins 
in Indi... But you gave me no chance of retrieving my mistake. 
You seemed still convinced that I wa': first the accepted and then 
the discarded lover of Mrs, Brooke; and I must say that little lady 
has a wonderfully inventive genius. Pauline — Polly — don’t you 
think she has made us both wretched enough? At least she has me 
A want a wife, a helpmate. A year ago I thought I might find om 
in you. Won’t you let me think so now?” 

And Polly had found her master — the man whom she could love 
and honor, and trust in with all her heart. And he— why, he ha( 
found his queen ; for what need is there to say which shall govern 
or which obey, which is the stronger and Iho better of the two, in 
union so perfect and entire as was theirs? 


208 


SOME OF OUll GIRLS. 


!Por they were truly mated, husband and wife, joining hand in 
hand to go through life’s pilgrimage together. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

HOW MADGE WAS. WON AT LAST. 

Out of the shadow of the grave, as it seemed, Horace Gordon 
came back to his own place and his own people. Why should he 
not? It was surely time that folly of his should be forgotten. 
Speaking of him, people only called it folly; and if some austere 
matrons shook their heads and looked graye when his name was 
mentioned, they were just as ready to receive him into their own 
houses, and to enter his, “ for poor Mrs. Gordon’s sake!” as if poor 
Adela had never existed at all. 

But she was living yet. Horace had a wife still, though no child 
of hers would ever call him father. The shock that should have 
killed the feeble life that seemed flickering so faintly, had roused 
some mysterious, dormant vitality within her. She might live for 
years— outlive, it might be, her strong, vigorous husband, who 
seemed to have risen from his sick-bed only more hale and vigorous 
than ever. But she would never set her foot to the ground again. 
Prom her sofa to her bed, from her bed to her sofa, that was all the 
change that Adela Gordon would ever know. One room would be 
her prison and her world. And if that room was within the walls 
of the Holmes, what did that matter to those outside? They came 
and they w^ent; they visited Mrs. Gordon just as if !ior son’s wife 
was not dwelling beneath his roof; and Horace went amongst them, 
and took his place again, as if the sin of his youth had never been. 

But he could never flee from it. As the living to the dead, so was 
he tied to this poor, maimed, crushed "creature— this wife, who 
would die childless, and might yet outlive him. Did it not seem, 
that if^he had been dastard enough, and vile enough, to let her per- 
ish in the flames, his cowardice would have had a happier fate than 
his bravery had won? Possibly, if to have lived so vilely would 
have been worth the living at all. But that sacrifice of his had 
borne its fruit. There had sprung up in his heart, not love or pas- 
sion— how could that be for this poor wTeck? — but an affection bom 
of pity, tender and gentle, such as he had never felt for anything 
before. Once, he had thought of her coming death as a release to 
him, now he would have shuddered at the thought. 

As to his mother, when her son was given back to her, she had 
leisure to think of his wife. Till then, she had left her in Polly’s 
I charge, now she volunteered to assist her in the task; for this poor 
jereature, with her faded beauty and her broken frame, helpless a& 
lan infant, and with, it might be, years of suffering awaiting her, did 
,not seem the bold, shameful thing who had lured her son to his- 
^in. All her evil seemed passed away— purged and atoned for. AYho 
i3®uld think of it now, in the awful doom laid on hei? 
t And in this doom, which cast its dreadful shadow on her son, 
prs. Gordon saw her own punishment meted out to her. 
f ”1 would have had him free from her,” she said to Gordon 
"ynsdell, “ to begin his life afresh; and he has to begin it, but 


SOME OE OUR GIRLS. 209 

linked to her more firmly than ever. Like hers, in some sort, his 
sin is to bring its life-long punishment.” 

As to Millicent Pern bury, she is still unmarried. Horace Gordon 
and she are good friends, but their love has long been a thing of the 
past. It may be tbat Millicent may marry yet, for she is still in her 
early womanhood, and her beauty is all the brighter and the fuller, 
because the moment you look upon it you see that it is the beauty 
of a woman who has an aim and an object in life. If Millicent ever 
marries, her children will surely have reason to rise up and call her 
blessed. But are there no children who do that now? If ever she 
is wife and mother, she will do her work nobly as such; but let us. 
who are wives and mothers, be thankful that there are such women 
as Millicent Pembury in the world, to do the tasks that are bej^ond 
us. But there is one thing certain, if Millicent does choose a hus- 
band, it will not be for the mere sake of having one, nor will she 
enter into marriage because she does not know what better to do 
with her life. 

As to Polly — well, Polly is a model wife. Does she obey her 
husband? Well, she loves him. And love comprises truth, and 
loyalty, and honor, and homage, all freely, fully given; and these 
are surely a little better than the unreasoning obedience of a slave. 

If Polly thinks— and, right or wrong, girls and women of Polly’s 
stamp do think nowadays— that mothers should have some right to 
the children they have borne; that women should have something 
to do with the making of the laws that govern them; and, above all, 
that a woman has not done her very utmost as a wife when she has 
duly attended to the cooking of her husband’s dinner and the mend- 
ing of his linen; why, nevertheless, Mr. Gordon Tynsdell’s dinner 
is well cooked, and no man living has his domestic comforts belter 
cared for. And God has given Polly children, to be the crowning 
joy and sweetness of her life. And if all this wealth of happiness 
makes her more eager to care for the unhappy wives crushed, de- 
graded, by the very hand that should protect them — the outcast, the 
suffering, the helpless, — more eager, with her stronger - nature and 
her greater energy, to act still as the right hand and the help of 
Millicent Pembury, — is Polly altogether a much worse specimen of 
womanhood than that essence of feminine softness and sweetness — 
Amanda Tomlyn, late Mrs. Brooke? 

Amanda dresses charmingly, and spends her husband’s money 
lavishly. She has given him two children, and, like their mother, 
they are beautifully dressed, and very pretty, and it is to be hoped 
their nurses will do their duty by them, and the family doctor look 
well after their health, for their mamma troubles herself exceedingly 
little about them. As to her other children, they are sent to board- 
ing-school, for Amanda’s sisters having married, and having little 
ones of their own to look after, and her mother being too infirm for 
their charge, Amanda found herself obliged to resume it. Mr. 
Tomlyn never took very kindly to these children — to use his own 
words, he had not bargained for them; and, therefore, they go to 
school nine months of the year, and spend the other three with 
Polly. Amanda has a very good cook, who finds it worth while to 
keep her situation, as the butcher’s bills are not closely looked into; 
and Mrs. Tomlyu dreads soiling her dresses by entering the kitchen; 


210 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


and Mr. Tomlyn comes home from business, and, having eaten his 
dinner, goes to sleep on one side of the fire, and Amanda dozes gently 
on the other, unless they ace either giving or receiving those formal 
entertainments which form Mr. Tomlyn’s idea of “society.” But 
they are well matched. Who could wish him a better wife, or her 
a worthier husband? Only it would be an awful outlook for our 
poor humanity if this were all that marriage could lead us to. 

And for the baby with whom my story opened. It was to prove 
no child of illustrious fortunes, no mysterious foundling, whose 
parents would claim it some fine day, and shower rewards right and 
left upon all who had aided it. Born, most probably, some sinless 
child of sin, whose death would be more welcome than its life, no 
one ever came to dispute Millicent Pembury’s claim to it. In a little 
time it was the pet and plaything of its new home— 'the comfort, as 
she phrased it, of its adopted mother’s heart, coming, as it did. in 
the place of the little one she had lost. And then, oh! why is it that 
little graves are always making, and little blossoms swept away be- 
fore they ripen into fruit? Millicent’s charge was taken from the 
simple folks who had grown to love it, from the children to whom 
it had come as a new sister, and it sleeps in the village churchyard 
— surely, not having lived its little life in vain. 

“ It was through the baby 1 first knew you, Polly,” said Milli- 
cent; “ and hut for you, what would my life have been?” 

“ And it was through the baby that poor Madge first showed U3 
she was a human creature, after all. Oh, if we could only reach 
Madge now? Oh, MiUicent, the little one is better dead than to be 
like her.” 

Baby had been buried a month. It was a soft, mild day in the 
early spring. Daylight was fading, and Polly, who had been plant- 
ing violets and primroses in a little grave in the quiet cemetery, 
rose from her task to go homeward. Two girls had been with her 
—two of those girls whose advent had been such a scandal in the 
village. The “ baby ” had been well known to them; for, as soon 
as it could toddle, it had been taken to the Lodge by Polly for them 
to play with. “ The little creature will humanize and womanize 
them,” she said to Millicent, “ as nothing else will do.” She took 
her own little one there now, but it did not quite fill Baby’s vacant 
place. Some good folks wondered at that— that Mrs. Tynsdell 
should let her child be handled by these wretched children; just as 
they wondered that, in the quiet room where Adela G-ordon lay, not 
living, but enduring, Millicent Pembury and she were the only 
visitors. It has been said, “ To the pure all things are pure;” and 
it is the stainless and the sinless who, without smirch or soil, can 
come in contact with the lost. 

Polly had stood by the little grave, telling these unhappy children, 
who had never known what childhood really is, of the little creat- 
ure now gone to its Father. It had been as an angel on earth unto 
them. Polly had had a hard task with these girls, but Baby on 
earth had helped her greatly; would the “ Baby ” in Heaven do so 
still? It seemed so, for their tears were falling, and these two 
were not easily moved to tears. “ Good-by, teacher,” they said, 
softly, as they left her at the churchyard-gate, and walked home- 
ward. Polly looked after them wistfully. “ If I had only some 


SOME OP OUR GIRLS, 211 

help with them! And Mrs. Clare is not so strong, and the task is 
almost beyond Millicent, and 1 cannot, cannot give them up.” 

The church was at the very end of the village, in a quiet little 
nook of greenness — an old church, with a large porch, beneath 
which many generations had exchanged greetings as they came out 
of the house of God. As Polly left the churchyard, she caught 
sight of a figure crouching in the porch — a woman, evidently, with 
garments worn to that nameless, colorless lint, that want seems to 
stamp upon its owner. 

“Some tramp,” thought Polly, “resting here.” Then, pres- 
ently, “ I’ll go and speak to her.” 

As she went, the woman never moved, but from under the shape- 
less bonnet, surmounted with what once had been some tawdry 
finery, she saw two fierce eyes gleaming. The face was pale, — she 
could see that, even in the gathering dusk, — but it seemed familiar, 
too. Was that bundle of rags — that poor, beaten-down, tired 
thing — Madge? Polly’s heart leaped up within her. If Madge, in 
any strait, had sought her out, instead of claiming her dreary right 
of shelter in the workhouse, why there was hope for Madge, after 
all. She went up quickly to the wayfarer, and laid her hand on 
her shoulder. “ Madge!” 

“ It’s me. Miss Brooke,” in the dull, weary voice of old. 

“I’m not Miss Brooke, 1 have a home, and a husband, and a 
baby,” said Polly, impulsive in her matronhood, as she had always 
been. “ And, oh! Madge, do you know from where I come? The 
baby — our baby — your baby, that you saved and brought to life, is 
lying in the churchyard there.” 

“ Best place for it,” said Madge, in tlio same dull tone. “ I was 
glad enough, 1 know, when my own little ’un went.” 

“ Yours, Madge?” 

“And I’d never a husband,” she said, with a reckless, defiant 
laugh. “ !So take your hands off me. Miss Brooke. I’m not fit for 
ladies like you to touch, 1 know.” 

For all answer, Polly held her still the closer. 

“ Just tell me all about it, Madge. You’ve been in great trouble 
since I saw you. How did your baby die?” 

“ It was the damp and the cold that settled on its chest, and I’d 
no money to pay a doctor, and no warm house to keep it in, if I 
had. I stayed at that place at the lodging-house as long as I could 
hold out, but I broke down at last. The work was dreadful hard. 
Then I thought I’d go back to the Union — I’d a right to, you know; 
but I felt as though, if 1 once went back, I should never have the 
spirit to come out again; an’ I’d seen nothin’ yet; and somehow I 
did feel as if it were too soon to be shut out of Ihe world altogether. 
So 1 shared a room with a friend out of place like myself, and went 
to the hospital, an’ when I got better she persuaded me to go hop- 
ping; it would do my health good, she said, an’ be a bit of a lark, 
like. So I went; an’ then 1 fell in with— ^well, his name don’t mat- 
ter. an’ may be this isn’t fit for you to hear, but you’ve brought it 
on yourself. He seemed very fond of me. I do think he did care 
for me,” said Madge, her voice softening into womanliness; “ an’ 
we took up together. He’d been a gentleman’s servant, but he was 
out of place, an’ so he’d gone hopping too. When we came back 


212 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


to London, he got work at the stables now an’ then, but he wasn’t 
steady. He wasn’t bad. He did beat me now an’ then, an’ — an’ when 
my baby was cornin’ I asked him to marry me. I didn’t mind for 
myself, but I thought I shouldn’t like the little thing, if it lived, 
to be ashamed of its mother. An’ he wouldn’t. He said he come 
ot decent farmin’ folks, an’ ’twas his own fault if he’d got down in 
the world, an’ he didn’t mean to stop down always; an’ when he 
did get a bit up the tree, what would be said to him if he’d married 
a girl from the workhus? Well, my baby was born, an’ then he 
’listed; an’ a week after he’d gone the little ’un died, an’ I was real 
glad. What do the likes of I want with children? An’ at any rate 
that won’t never lire to jeer me with where 1 cum from. Then 1 
heard his regiment was staying at llchester, an’ was going off soon 
to India. And he wrote to me, sendin’ me a bit of money, an’ 
say in’ he should like to see me afore he went. And I walked down 
to llchester— the 'money wouldn’t hold out for ridin’— an’ there I 
saw him, an’ we’ll never see each other again. He spoke kind, 
though, at partin’, but he won’t think much of me where he’s gone. 
Then I thought I’d like to come an’ see you; but when I got near 
the big house, the sight of it nearly scared me. i thought there’d 
be lots of servants, and they’d only jeer at me. 1 suppose, though, 
if you’re married, you’re not living there now?” 

‘‘ If 1 had been, the servants wouldn’t have kept you from me.” 

“Well, I have seen you now: an’ I’m not sorry. I just crept 
here, being a quiet place, to rest a bit, and think of what I’d better 
do, an’ it’s odd you come upon me line this. I don’t feel so tired 
now, an’ I’ll be gettin’ back toward home.” - 

“ Home?” said Polly. 

“Well, the Union! That’s the on ’y home 1 know of. Susan 
Smith — she’s married now, her husband’s in the Perlice, an’ they’re 
very comfortable together— tried hard to persuade me out of it. 
She was rare and angry with me at first when 1 took up with hifn, 
but she was kind, too, when the baby came, an’ when it died she 
wanted me to go out to service again. But what was the good? I’d 
got no character an’ no clothes, an’ the Union’s bound to take me 
in when they find I can’t keep myself.” 

“But you won’t go back to the Union now, Madge?” said 
Polly, firmly. 

“ There’s nothing else for me to do. If I go out to service again, 
1 shall either be drove to death with work, in a hard place like the 
last, or else looked down on, if 1 get into a better. 1 never minded 
the work, as long as my strength would only let me do it; but I 
can’t stand the other.” 

“ I can tell you of a place, Madge— a place where there will be no 
looking down, — where 1 have wanted you again and again, — where 
you might help us, Madge, better than any one I have ever 
known. Miss Pembury, who is as one of God’s angels, has 
made a little home for some poor children — girls, Madge, who 
have never known a home — who have run wild in the streets 
and the gutters almost as soon as they could run at all. We want 
some help with them, Madge — we want some one who can work, 
and who will teach them to work; some, one who will not be 
shocked if these girls are coarse, and rough, and worse, till we have 


SOME OF OUR GIRLS. 


213 


had time to teach them better thiogs. Ob ! Madge, you have known 
what it is to be a girl yourself, unloved and uncared for. Won’t 
you help us with these? Girls who have had homes, and fathers 
and mothers, won’t feel for them — won’t care for them— would 
have no patience with their ways. But you would have patience, 
Madge— you would help us with them?” 

“ I don’t know. Sometimes I feel so bad myself.” 

“ You would feel better if you helped them. In helping Miss 
Pembury and me to make them good and happy, in helping Mrs. 
Clare, the mistress of their home, to show them how good and use- 
ful work should be done, you would learn that you — even you, 
Madge, might be of use in this world. And you would grow better 
and happier yourself. Oh. if you once knew the happiness of help- 
ing others, Madge! And how you could help us!” 

It’s a queer notion, me helping two ladies like Miss Pembury 
and you.” 

** Oh, how you could help us!” 

“ I’ve been real bad,” said Madge, doubtfully. How would it 
be if they knew that?” 

“They never will know it — you’ll live it down. You’ll be a 
good woman yet, Madge. If you have sinned against God and 
against yourself, live down the sin! There are years and years be- 
fore you of good, useful work. Don’t go back to the workhouse, 
and live a life that is worse than death. Stay with us, and some 
day your baby shall be your own again ; and the little one you 
saved for a while, and that made Millicent Pembury and me feel as 
if we were sisters, shall come with it, to welcome you to the land 
where rich and poor are all alike. Stay with us, and help us, and 
save yourself while you are helping us to save these outcast girls!” 

Polly heard Madge sobbing, and knew her victory was won. She 
had struck through the rock to the living spring at last. 

And Madge, like Millicent Pembury and Pauline Tynsdell, has 
found her work at last, and does it. 


THE END. 


fhe Seaside Library. 


Oiei>lNARV^ ERITION. 


GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P« O. Box S751, 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


The following: works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary EditioH^. 
ure for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, o« 
receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by the 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearfest Foe 20 ' 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weir4 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

632 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

61 Kilmeny 10- 

53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type). 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

890 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. lO' 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

668 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Pour MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 YoUnde.... 20 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRABY.---Ordinary Edition. 




CHARLES LEYER’S WORKS.— Continued. 

609 Barrington 

633 Sir Jasper Carew, Knight 

657 The Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part I 

657 The Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part II 

622 Tony Butler 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part I 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part II 

951 Paul Gosslett’s Confessions 

965 One of Them. First half 

965 One of Them. Second half • 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part I 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part II 

1235 The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. First half 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. Second half 

1342 Horace Templeton 

1394 Boland Cashel. First half 

1394 Roland Cashel. Second half 

1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads in Life. First half. . 
1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads in Life. Second half. 


SAMUEL LOYER’S WORKS. 

83 Handy Andy 

66 Rory O’More 

123 Irish Legends 

158 He Would be a Gentleman 

893 Tom Crosbie. 


SIR BULWER LYTTON’S WORKS. 

6 The Last Days of Pompeii 

687 Zanoni 

689 Pilgrims of the Rhine 

714 Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada 

781 Rienzi, The Last of the Tribunes 

955 Eugene Aram 

979 Ernest Maltravers 

1001 Alice; or. The Mysteries 

1064 The Caxtons 

1089 My Novel. First half 

1089 My Novel Second half 

1205 Kenelm Chillingly: His Adventures and Opinions, 
1316 Pelham; or, The Adventures of a Gentleman. . . , . . 

1454 The Last of the Barons. First half 

1454 The Last of the Barons. Second half 

1529 A Strange Story 

1690 What Will He Do With It? First half 

1690 What Will He Do With It? Second half. 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRABY. — Ordinary Edition. 


T. B. MACAULAY’S WORKS. 

926 The Lays of Ancient Rome, and Other Poems. . 

976 History of England. Part I 

976 History of England. Part II 

976 History of England. Part III 

976 History of England. Part IV 

976 History of England. Part V 

976 History of England. Part VI 

976 History of England. Part VII 

976 History of England. Part VIII 

976 History of England. Part IX 

976 History of England. Part X 

GEORGE MACDONALD’S WORKS. 

455 Paul Faber, Surgeon 

491 Sir Gibb.le 

595 The Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 

606 The Seaboard Parish *. 

627 Thomas Wingfold, Curate 

643 The Vicar’s Daughter 

668 David Elginbrod 

677 St. George and St. Michael ! 

790 Alec Forbes of Howglen 

887 Malcolm 

922 Mary Marston 

938 Guild Court. A London Story 

948 The Marquis of Lossie 

962 Robert Falconer 

1375 Castle Warlock : A Homely Romance 

1439 Adela Cathcart 

1466 The Gifts of the Child Christ, and Other Tales. . 

1488 The Princess and Curdle. A Girl’s Story 

1498 Weighed and Wanting 

E. MARLITT’S WORKS. 

453 The Princess of the Moor 

522 The Countess Gisela 

636 In the Schillingscourt 

866 The Second Wife 

878 In the Counselor’s House 

1055 The Bailiff’s Maid 

1210 Old Mamselle’s Secret 

CAPTAIN MARRYAT’S WORKS. 

108 The Sea-King 

122 The Privateersman 

141 Master man Ready 

147 Rattlin, the Reefer 

150 Mr. Midshipman Easy . 

156 The King’s Own 


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Kii THE SEASIDE LllSB ART.— Ordinary Edition. 


CAPTAIN MARRYAT’S WORKS.- Continued. 

159 The Phantom Ship id 

163 Frank Mildmay 10 

170 Newton Forster 10 

173 Japhet in Search of a Father 20 

175 The Pacha of Many Tales 10 

176 Percival Keene 10 

185 The Little Savage 10 

192 The Three Cutters - 10 

199 Settlers in Canada 10 

207 The Children of the New Forest 10 

266 Jacob Faithful 10 

273 Snarleyyow, the Dog Fiend 10 

282 Poor Jack 10 

340 Peter Simple 20 

898 The Mission ; Scenes in Africa 20^ 

1070 The Poacher 20> 

1116 Valerie 20 

FLORENCE MARRYAT’S WORKS. 

110 The Girls of Feversham 10 

119 Petronel 20 

197 “No Intentions ” 20 

206 The Poison of Asps 10 

219 “My Own Child 10 

305 Her Lord and Master 10 

323 A Lucky Disappointment 10 

426 Written in Fire 20 

533 Ange 20 

635 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 

703 The Root of All Evil 20 

742 A Star and a Heart 10 

784 Out of His Reckoning 10 

820 The Fair-Haired Alda 20 

897 Love’s Conflict 20 

1038 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 

1067 A Little Stepson 10 

1086 My Sister the Actress 20 

1349 Phyllida. A Life Drama 20 

1654 Facing the Footlights 20 

MISS MULOCK’S WORKS. 

2 John Halifax, Gentleman 10 

456 John Halifax, Gentleman (large type) 20 

77 Mistress and Maid 10 

81 'Christian’s Mistake 10 

82 My Mother and 1 10 

88 The Two Marriages 10 

91 The Woman’s Kingdom 20 

101 A Noble Life 10 

JG3 A Brave Lady 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. xin 


MISS MULOCK’S WOEKS.-Contiiiued. 

121 A Life for a Life 20 

130 SermoDs Out of Church 10 

135 Agatha’s Husband 20 

142 The Head of the Family 20 

227 Hannah 10 

240 The Laurel Bush 10 

291 Olive 20 

294 The Ogilvies 20 

314 Nothing New 10 

320 A Hero 10 

330 A Low Marriage 10 

457 The Last of the Ruthvens, and The Self-Seer 10 

480 Avillion; or, The Happy Isles 10 

626 Young Mrs. Jardine 10 

628 Motherless (Translated by Miss Mulock) 10 

752' The Italian’s Daughter 10 

773 The Two Homes 10 

804 A Bride’s Tragedy 10 

824 A Legacy 20 

850 The Half-Caste 10 

886 Miss Letty’s Experiences 10 

945 Studies from Life 10 

964 His Little Mother, and Other Tales 10 

978 A Woman’s Thoughts About Women 10 

1029 Twenty Years Ago. A Book for Girls. (Edited by Miss 

Mulock) 10 

1177 An Only Sister, Madame Guizot de Witt, (Edited by Miss 

Mulock) 10 

1261 Plain-Speaking 10 


MRS. OLIPHANT’S WORKS, 

136 Katie Stewart 10 

210 Young Musgrave 20 

391 The Primrose Path 20 

452 An Odd Couple 10 

475 Heart and Cross 10 

488 A Beleaguered City 10 

497 For Love and Life 20 

511 Squire Arden 20 

542 The Story of Valentine and His Brother 20 

596 Caleb Field 10 

651 Madonna Mary 20 

665 The Fugitives 10 

680 The Greatest Heiress in England 26 

706 Earthbound 10 

775 The Queen (Illustrated) 10 

785 Orphans 10 

802 Phoebe, Junior. A Last Chronicle of Carlingford 20 

875 No, 3 Grove Road 10 


Xiv THE SEASIDE LIBBABY. — Ordinary Edition, 


MRS. OLIPHANT'S WORKS.— Continued. 

881 He That Will Hot When He May 20 

919 May 20 

959 Miss Marjoribanks. Part 1 20 

959 Miss Marjoribanks. Part II 20 

1004 Harry Joscelyn 20 

1017 Carita 20 

1049 In Trust 20 

1215 Brownlows 20 

1319 Lady Jane 10 

1396 Whiteladies 20 

1407 A Rose in June 10 

1449 A Little Pilgrim 10 

1547 It Was a Lover and His Lass 20 

1662 Salem Chapel 20 

1669 The Minister’s Wife. First half 20 

1669 The Minister’s Wife. Second half 20 


“ OUIDA’S ” WORKS. 

49 Granville de Vigne; or, Held in Bondage 20 

54 Under Two Flags 20 

55 In a Winter City 10 

56 Strathmore 20 

59 Chandos 20 

61 Bebee; or, Two Little Wooden Shoes 10 

62 Folle-Farine 20 

71 Ariadne — The Story of a Dream ^ 20- 

181 Beatrice Boville 10 

211 Randolph Gordon 10 

230 Little Grand and the Marchioness 10 

241 Tricotrin 20 

249 Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage 10 

279 A Leaf in the Storm, and Other Tales 10 

281 Lad}^ Marabout’s Troubles 10 

334 Puck 20 

377 Friendship 20 

379 Pascarel 20 

386 Sign a 20 

389 Idalia 20 

563 A Hero’s Reward 10 

676 Umiita 10 

699 Moths 20 

791 Pipistrello 10 

864 Findelkind 10 

915 A Tillage Commune 20 

1025 The Little Earl 10 

1247 In Maremma 20 

1334 Bimbi 10 

1586 Frescoes 10 

1625 Wanda, Countess von Szalras 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 




JAMBS PAYN’S WORKS. 

138 What He Cost Her 10 

299 By Proxy 20 

345 Halves 10 

358 Less Black Than We’re Painted 20 

369 Pound Dead 10 

382 Gwendoline’s Harvest 20 

401 A Beggar on Horseback 10 

406 One of the Family 20 

485 At Her Mercy. 20 

, 502 Under One Roof (Illustrated) 20 

602 Lost Sir Massingberd 10 

646 Married Beneath Him 20 

687 Fallen Fortunes. 20 

‘892 A Confidential Agent 20 

981 From Exile 20 

1045 The Clyffards of Olyffe 20 

1149 A Grape from a Thorn 20 

1193 High Spirits 10 

1267 For Cash Only 20 

1516 Kit: A Memory 20 

1524 Carlyon’s Year 10 

1652 A Woman’s Vengeance ; 20 

CHARLES READE’S WORKS. 

4 A Woman-Hater 20 

19 A Terrible Temptation 10 

21 Foul Play 20 

24 “It is Never Too Late to Mend ” 20 

31 Love Me Little, Love Me Long 20 

34 A Simpleton 10 

41 White Lies 20 

78 Griffith Gaunt 20 

86 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

112 Very Hard Cash 20 

203 The Cloister and the Hearth 20 

237 The Wandering Heir 10 

246 Peg Woffington 10 

270 The Jilt. . . : 10 

371 Christie Johnstone 10 

536 Jack of all Trades 10 

1204 Clouds and Sunshine 10 

1322 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 

1390 Singleheart and Doubleface. A Matter-of-Fact Romance. . 10 

W. CLARK RUSSELL’S WORKS. 

848 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

1034 An Ocean Free Lance 20 

1339 The Wreck of the “ Grosvenor ” 20 

1373 My Watch Below; or, Yarns Spun When Off Duty 20 

1381 Auld Lang Syne 10 

1467 The “ Lady Maud Schooner Yacht 20 

1653 A Sea Queen 20 


KYI THE SEASIDE LIBEAEY, — Ordinary Ediiim, 

' — — — 

SIR WALTER SCOTT’S WORRS. 

39 Ivanhoe 20 

183 Kenilworth 20 

196 Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

593 The Talisman 20 

723 Guy Mannering 20 

857 Waverley 20 

920 Rob Roy 20 

1007 Quentin Durward. 20 

1082 Count Robert of Paris 20 

1275 Old Mortality 20 

1328 The Antiquary 20 

1462 The Betrothed : A Tale of the Crusaders, and The Chroni- 
cles of the Canongate 20 

1598 Redgauntiet. A Tale of the Eighteenth Century 20 

1701 The Monastery 20 

1702 The Abbot (Sequel to ‘ ‘ The Monastery ”) 20 

EUGENE SUE S WORKS. 

129 The Wandering Jew. First half 20 

129 The Wandering Jew. Second half 20 

205 The Mysteries of Paris. First half 20 

205 The Mysteries of Paris. Second half 20 

800 De Rohan ; or, The Court Conspirator 20 

835 Arthur 20 

1030 The Commander of Malta 20 

1540 Martin the Foundling; or. The Adventures of a Talet de 

Chambre. Vol. I 20 

1540 Martin the Foundling; or. The Adventures of aj Valet de 

Chambre. Vol. II 20 

1540 Martin the Foundling; or. The Adventures of a Valet de 

Chambre. Vol. Ill 20 

1590 Pride; or. The Duchess. First half 20 

1590 Pride; or. The Duchess. Second^half ... 20 

WM. M. THACKERAY’S WORKS. 

559 Vanity Pair 20 

S70 Lovel, the Widower 10 

580 Denis Duval 10 

582 Henry Esmond 20 

613 The Newcomes. Parti 20 

613 The Newcomes. P^t II 20 

624 The Great Hoggarty Diamond 10 

638 Pendennis. Parti 20 

638 Pendennis. Part II 20 

648 The Virginians. Part I 20 

C48 The Virginians. Part II 20 

669 Adventures of Philip. Parti 20 

669 Adventures of Philip. Part II 20 

961 Barry Lyndon 10 

1597 Catherine: A Story. By Ikey Solomons, Esq., Junior.. 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRABY. — Ordinary Edition, xvii 


ANTHONY TROLLOPE’S WORKS. 

12 The American Senator 20 

399 The Lady of Launay 10 

530 Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite 20 

531 John Caldigate 10 

601 Cousin Henry 10 

768 The Duke’s Children 20 

870 An Eye for an Eye 10 

910 Dr. Wortle’s School 10 

944 Miss Mackenzie 20 

1047 Ayala’s Angel 26 

1090 Barchester Towers 20 

1201 Phineas Finn. First half. 20 

1201 Phineas Finn. Second half 20 

1206 Doctor Thorne. First half 20 

1206 Doctor Thorne. Second half 20 

1217 Lady Anna 20 

1256 The Fixed Period 10 

1283 Why Frau Frohmann Raised Her Prices, and Other Stories 10 

1292 Marion Fay 20 

1306 The Struggles of Brown, Jones &> Robinson 20 

1318 Orley Farm. First half 20 

1318 Orley Farm. Second half 20 

1348 The Belton Estate — 20 

1419 Kept in the Dark 10 

1436 The Kellys and The O Kellys 20 

1450 The Two Heroines of Plumplington 10 

1455 The Macdermots of Ballycloran 20 

1473 Castle Richmond 20 

1486 Phineas Redux. First half 20 

1486 Phineas Redux. Second half 20 

1494 The Vicar of Bullhampton 20 

1511 Not If I Know It 10 

1551 Is He Popenjoy? 20 

1559 The Small House at Allington. First half 20 

1559 The Small House at Allington. Second half 20 

1567 The Last Chronicle of Barset. First half 20 

1567 The Last Chronicle of Barset. Second half. 20 

1634 The Way We Live Now. First hall 20 

1634 The Way We Live Now. Second half 20 

1656 Mr. Scarborough’s Family 10 

JULES VERNE’S WORKS. 

5 The Black-Indies 10 

16 The English at the North Pole 10 

43 Hector Servadac 10 

.57 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World — South 

America 10 

60 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World— x^ustralia 10 
64 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World — New 

Zealand 10 


xvni THE SEASIDE LIBBARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


JULES YERNE’S WORKS.-Continiied. 

68 Five Weeks in a Balloon 10 

73 Meridiana, and The Blockade Runners 10 

75 The Fur Country. Part I 10 

75 The Fur Country. Part II 10 

84 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas 10 

87 A Journey to the Centre of the Earth 10 

90 The Mysterious Island — Dropped from the Clouds 10 

93 The Mysterious Island — The Abandoned 10 

97 The Mysterious Island — The Secret of the Island 10 

99 From the Earth to the Moon 10 

111 A Tour of the World in Eighty Days 10 

131 Michael Strogotf 10 

1092 Michael Strogoff (large type, illustrated edition), 20 

414 Dick Sand; or, Captain at Fifteen. Part I. 10 

414 Dick Sand; or, Captain at Fifteen. Part II 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part 1 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part II 10 

466 Great Voyages and Great Navigators. Part III 30 

505 The Field of Ice (Illustrated) 10 

510 The Pearl of Lima 10 

520 Round the Moon (Illustrated) 10 

634 The 500 Millions of the Begum 10 

647 Tribulations of a Chinaman 10 

673 Dr. Ox’s Experiment 10 

710 Survivors of the Chancellor 10 

818 The Steam -House; or, A Trip Across Northern India. 

Part I 10 

818 The Steam-House; or, A Trip Across Northern India. 

Part II 10 

1043 The Jangada; or, Eight Hundred Leagues over the 

Amazon. Part 1 10 

1043 The Jangada; or. Eight Hundred Leagues over the 

Amazon. Part II 10 

1519 Robinsons’ School ...... 10 

1677 The Headstrong Turk. First half 10 

MRS. HENRY WOOD’S WORKS. 

1 East Lynne 10 

381 East Lynne (in large type) 20 

25 Lady Adelaide’s Oath 20 

37 The'Mj’^stery 10 

1125 The Mystery (large type edition) 20 

40 The Heir to Ashley 10 

45 A Life’s Secret 10 

52 The Lost Bank Note 10 

63 Dene Hollow 20 

65 The Nobleman’s Wife 10 

67 Castle Wafer, and Henry Arkell 10 

73 Bessy Rane 20 

74 Rupert Hall 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


XIX 


MRS. HENRY WOOD’S WORKS.-Contiimed. 

83 Verner’s Pride 20 

92 Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles 20 

106 The Master of Greylands 20 

115 Within the Maze • • • • 20 

124 Squire Trevlyn's Heir 20 

143 The Haunted Tower 10 

220 George Canterbury’s W ill 20 

256 Lord Oakburn’s Daughters 20 

288 The Channings 20 

810 Roland Yorke 20 

828 The Shadow of Ashlydyat 20 

349 Elster’s Folly 20 

357 Red Court Farm 20 

365 Oswald Cray 20 

373 St. Martin’s Eve 20 

443 Pomeroy Abbey 20 

467 Edina 20 

508 Orville College 20 

914 Johnny Ludlow. Part 1 20 

914 Johnny Ludlow. Part II 20 

1054 A Tale of Sin 10 

1076 Anne; or, The Doctor’s Daughter 10 

1094 Rose Lodge 10 

1117 Lost in the Post, and Other Tales 10 

1128 Robert Ashton’s Wedding Day, and Other Tales 10 

1166 Court Netherleigh 20 

For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, post- 
;,ige free, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for 
double numbers, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will 
please order by numbers. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Piiblisliev, 

P.O.Box 3751. 17 to ‘27 Vande water Street, New Yorko 


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3 The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida ” 20 

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6 Portia. Bj^ “ The Duchess” 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne, By Mrs. Henry Wood 20 

9 Wanda. By “ Ouida ” 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Dicicens. 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. Miss Mu-lock 20 


15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bront6 20 

16 Phyllis. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

17 The Wooing Ot By Mrs. Alexander. .. 20 

18 Shandon Bells. By William Black 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By the Author of 

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20 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile 

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21 Sunrise. By William Black 20 

22 David Copperfleld. Dickens. Vol. I.. 20 

22 David Copperfleld. Dickens. Vol. H. 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. I... 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. II.. 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duchess ”... 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau, Vol. I 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau, Vol. II. 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. Thackeray 20 

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30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot 20 

32 The Land Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 

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34 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot ... 30 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. Miss Braddon 20 

36 Adati^ Bede. By George Eliot 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby, By Charles Dickens 30 

38 The Widow Lerbuge. By Gaboriau.. 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

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41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens.. , . 20 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau. .20 

44 Maclebd of Dare. By William Black. . 20 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oliphant. . . 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade. . 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant. . 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By Black 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

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52 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins 20 
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61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. 10 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander. , 20 

63 The Spy. By J. lenimore Cooper. . . 20 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles Gibbon. . 10 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 

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67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore.. 30 

68 A Queen Amongst Women, By the 

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69 Madolin’s Lover. By the Author of 

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70 White Wings. By William Black .... 20 

71 A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell.. 20 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. ByM. C. Hay 20 

73 Redeemed bj’ Love. By the Author of 

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74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Dumas 20 

76 Wife in Name Onl.y. By the Author of 

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77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens 20 

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80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. Black. 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By F. Du Boisgobey. . . 20 

83 A Strange Story. Bulwer Lytton.’... 20 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens. . . 20 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell.. 20 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 

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89 The Red Eric. Bj- R. M. Ballantyne. 10 

90 Ernest Maltravers. Bulwer Lytton . , 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. 30 

92 Lord lAmne’s Choice. By the Author 

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93 Anthony Trollope's Autobiography.. 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. ,. 30 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M, Ballantyne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Ballantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. Walter Besant . 20 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 20 

99 Barbara’s History. A, B. Edwards. . . 20 
100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By 


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101 Second Thoughts. Rhoda Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. ' By Wilkie Collins. . . 30 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Boisgobej". 30 

105 A Noble Wife. By John Saunders 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. . . 40 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens. . 40 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth and Doctor 

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